The lash is buried in their cheeks; they're slaughtered if they howl;
To their bloody Lord of Battles must they only bend the knee,
For hard as steel and fierce as hell should cannon fodder be.
Scourge and curses are their portion, pain and hunger without end,
Till they hail the yell of shrapnel as the welcome of a friend;
They rape and burn and laugh to hear the frantic women cry
And do the devil's work to-day, but on the morrow die.
A million souls, a million hearts, a million hopes and fears,
A million million memories of partings and of tears
March along with cannon fodder to the agony of war.