It isn't the foe that we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns—
It's the MUD,
               MUD,
                    MUD.

It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet—
It's the RAIN,
                RAIN,
                      RAIN.

It isn't because we lack grit
We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the rum-jars and things
Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze—
It's the COLD,
                COLD,
                      COLD.

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
Of the RAIN,
              the COLD,
                        and the MUD.

Oh, weren't they the fine boys!  You never saw the beat of them,
Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare;
Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,
Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there.
Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them,
On the road, the white road, all the afternoon;
Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them,
Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune:

           It's a long way to Tipperary,
           It's a long way to go;
           It's a long way to Tipperary,
           And the sweetest girl I know.
           Good-bye, Piccadilly,
           Farewell, Lester Square:
           It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
           But my heart's right there.
"Come, Yvonne and Juliette!  Come, Mimi, and cheer for them!
Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by.
Aren't they the lovely lads!  Haven't you a tear for them
Going out so gallantly to dare and die?
What is it they're singing so?  Some high hymn of Motherland?
Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King?
'Marseillaise' or 'Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land,
Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing:

           "C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee',
           C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai;
           C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee',
           Et la belle fille qu'je connais.
           Bonjour, Peekadeely!
           Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire!
           C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee',
           Mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."
The gallant old "Contemptibles"!  There isn't much remains of them,
So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride;
For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them,
And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died.
And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them,
Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black;
But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!—
Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back:

           It's a long way to Tipperary
           (Which means "'ome" anywhere);
           It's a long way to Tipperary
           (And the things wot make you care).
           Good-bye, Piccadilly
           ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well);
           It's a long, long way to Tipperary—
           ('R!  Ain't War just 'ell?)