WHEN the foe is pressing and the shells come down

In a stream like maxim fire,

When the long grey ranks seem to thicken all the while,

And they stamp on the last of the wire,

When all along the line comes a whisper on the wind

That you hear through the drumming of the guns:

"They are through over there and the right is in the air,

And there isn't any end to the Huns,"—

Then keep along a-shooting till you can't shoot more,

And hit 'em with a shovel on the head.

Don't forget a lot of folk have beaten them before,

And a Hun'll never hurt you if he's dead.

If you're in a hole and your hopes begin to fail,

If you're in a losing fight,

Think a bit of Jonah in the belly of the whale,

'Cause-he-got-out-all-right.