It isn't the foe that we fear;
 It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
 Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
 To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns --
 It's the MUD,
 MUD,
 MUD.

It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
 It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
 It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
 It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet --
 It's the RAIN,
 RAIN,
 RAIN.

It isn't because we lack grit
 We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
 In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the rum-jars and things
 Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze --
 It's the COLD,
 COLD,
 COLD.

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
 The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
 From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
 With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
 Of the RAIN,
 THE COLD,
 AND THE MUD.