But it's fight, fight, fight,
And it's charge at double-quick;
A soldier thinking thoughts of home
Is one more soldier sick.
Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud;
This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood.
Last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be;
To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me.
But it's shoot, shoot, shoot,
And when the bullets hiss,