The days are long the nights are harsh our feet feel just like lead

The men are tired as wounded come in and most of them are dead.

We sit around the campfire and talk about our past

Missing our families missing our friends and hope this war won't last.

We lay inside our tents to sleep the ground is wet and cold

We're dreaming of the lovely day that we'll go marching home.

We go to battle in the morn we March there all the way

Hoping that afterwards we live another day.

When this war is over and many men have died

And the families of the lost have hung their heads and cried.

I'll be standing at the front for all of those in pain

Just take my hand and we'll go home and you'll never cry again.


© Elizabeth Harris