We infantry, we does without, there ain't no shops up 'ere;
And then for splashin' us with mud 'e draws six bob a day,
For the further away from the line you go the 'igher your rate of pay.
My shirt is rather chatty and my socks 'ud make you larf;
It's just a week o' Sundays since they sent us for a barf;
But them that 'as the cushy jobs they lives in style and state,
With a basin in their bedrooms and their dinners on a plate;
For 'tis a law o' nachur with the bloomin' infantry—
The nearer up to the line you go the dirtier will you be.
Blokes at the base, they gets their leave when they've bin out three munse;