We wander now who marched before, Hawking our bran from door to door, While other men from the mill take their flour: So it is to be an old soldier. Old, bare and sore, we look on the hound Turning upon the stiff frozen ground, Nosing the mould, with the night around: So it is to be an old soldier. And we who once rang out like a bell, Have nothing now to show to to sell; Old bones to carry, old stories to tell: So it is to be an old soldier. |