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.