Be it sand, rock or ice, gravel, mud or red loam
He still will fight on it bravely, eventually die
The crude little cross, telling men of his loss
Will cry mutely, to many a foreign sky

He's the tired looking man, in the untidy garb
Weatherbeaten, footsore, with much untold fatigue
But his spirit is still strong, as he marches along
With his burdens, for league upon many leagues

He attacks in the face, of such murderous fire
Crawling forward, attacking through slimy mud
Then he breaks through the lines, over wire and mines
And there, on the point of his bayonet, is blood

Should you meet him, untidy, begrimed and fatigued
Don't indulge in much unwarranted mirth
For the brave Infanteer, deserves more than a sneer
For he is truly, the very salt of this earth.