So It’s No more to the Trenches with the Mud-Sodden ground,
The Playing Field of Nations was but death that we found.
The fearful Whistle that summons the fight,
Those shooting white flares that startles the Night.
I’m leaving my Brothers beneath calm foreign skies ,
Under Soil Rich in Valour, in Peace where their lie.
Immortal young Souls of quick Mirth and good Song,
Their Spirts now travel with the days setting Sun.
I’ll be sailing on home from death’s Rolling-Mill,
And Gas Straining Lungs that the Chemists would fill.
Onto Rich covered Meadows and full Forests of green,
The Patchwork of Fields that no Carnage had seen.
And Life giving Corn in place of foul Mud,
To bright Clear Streams unsullied with Blood.
We’ll be riding the Sea upon White Crested foam,
To the Wives and the Mothers that are waiting at Home.
So it’s Goodbye dear Rheims, Picardie and Somme,
The Shell-Blasted Moonscape fierce hatred had done.
And it’s to Hell with the Marching and all that it’s for,
Politicians and Aggressors,
And to Hell with all War.