Our old battalion billets still,
Parades as usual go on,
We buckle in with right good will
And daily our equipment don
As if we meant to fight, but no!
The guns are booming through the air,
The trenches call us on, but oh!
We don't go there, we don't go there!

At night the stars are shining bright
The old world voice is whispering near,
We've heard it when the moon was light,
And London's streets were very dear;
But dearer now they are, sweetheart,
The buses running to the Strand, —
But we're so far, so far apart,
Each lonely in a different land.

But, dear, with sentiment aside
(The candle dwindles to the cheese)
I wish the sea were not so wide
When distance brings such thoughts as these.
One glance to see the foreign sky,
One look to note the stars o'erhead,
Sweet thoughts to you, sweetheart, and I
Turn in to billet barn, and bed.