When you've halted after marching till you feel you do not care
What may happen, for you can't march any more,
And the order comes to "Fall in" and to march you know not where,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.
When you're fighting in the trenches ankle-deep in mud and slush,
With the north wind cutting through you keen and raw,
While the second hand ticks slowly till it's time to make the rush,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.

When the order's "Up and at 'em" and the blood beats through your head,
When the dead are falling round you by the score,
And when all you think and all you feel and all you see is red,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.
When you're fighting in the desert where the heat waves never stop,
And you've never known what thirst has been before,
Though you'd sell your soul for water and you know there's not a drop,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.
We've been handed down a birthright which the bards of ages sing,
From the days of Agincourt and long before,
That a Briton owns no master save his God and save his king,
But you find a third when prisoner of war.
It's a feeling right inside you, and it never lets you go,
That you haven't been allowed to pay your score:
You may still be hale and hearty, but you're missing all the show.
What offers for the job? Prisoner of war.
M. A. B. J.
Written in Kastamoni,
1916.