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When you’re parted from home
A few thousand miles,
And your mind will roam
From the hedges and stiles
To a friendly room
With a fireside chair,
And the matchless one
Who’s waiting there;
Then it’s hard to grin
And not protest
At this senseless sin
That is War, at best.

When your letters stray,
Or are far apart,
And you wait each day
With a heavy heart
For – news of a ship
That’s just gone down –
It’s easy to slip
And wear a frown;
To snap at chums
Who mean you well;
Consign the Huns
And War, to Hell.

Though the folk are kind
And the land is fair,
You feel in mind
Like a stranger there.
As you make your bed
In the falling light
And you court Dame Sleep
With your lids pressed tight
You hope – yet fear –
To dream of home
And a loved one there;
While you sleep alone.

But – a job’s to do,
A war’s to win,
So we’ll battle through
All the ghastly din.
We’ll take the rough things
In our stride,
And button our feelings
Well inside:
So wel’ll grouse a bit
And carry on
Till the Rat is whipped
And the Victory won.

– Wilfred A. Beresford
Canadian Army Overseas