Boots and even tooth-brush frozen,
Regularly every morning;
Vainly tried to keep his feet warm,
Crouching o’er a little oil-stove,
Colder than New Zealand mutton,
Colder than an ice-cream soda.
And at intervals he murmured,
“How I hate this beastly country.”
And the sergeants and the corporals,
And the luckless private soldiers,