Murmured as the wind came sweeping,

“How I hate this blinkin’ country.”

Little then dreamed Tiadatha

Of the times those words would tremble

On the lips of countless soldiers

In the Salonica Army,

Both in winter and in summer:

“How I hate this blinkin’ country.”

When the blizzard passed, the Dudshires

Settled down to work in earnest: