And all the sector knows him now as le Poilu de Carcassonne.
And in return he keeps their hearts from that haunting foe, l'ennui;
He's their plaything, friend, and sentry too, and a lover of devilry;
He helps them to hunt out rats or Boches; he burrows and sniffs for mines,
And he growls when the murderous shrapnel flies screaming above the lines;
His little black nose is a-quiver with glee whenever a raid is on,
And they say with pride, "C'est la guerre elle-même, notre Poilu de Carcassonne!"
There was none more glad when they went to rest in their billet, a ruined shack,
But when they returned to the front-line trench he was just as pleased to be back;
He's the spirit of fun itself, and so when other men feel blue,