“Now some of us are mighty bad and some are wounded slight,
And some will see their threescore years and some won't last the night,
But the Red Cross train takes up the strain all in a minor key
And sings Boulogne and Blighty as she rumbles to the sea.
“Oh, it's better than the trenches and it's better than the rain,
It's better than the mud and stink; we're going home again,
Though most of us have left some of us on the wrong side of the sea.
We are a lot of blooming cripples, but—downhearted? No, siree.
“There's a holy speed about this train for each of us can see
That we will cross the shining channel that lies 'twixt her and me