Oh, they put me in the army and they handed me a pack,
They took away my nice new clothes and dolled me up in kack;
They marched me twenty miles a day to fit me for the war,
I didn't mind the first nine-teen but the last one made me sore:
Oh, it's not the pack that you carry on your back,
Nor the Springfield on your shoulder,
Nor the five inch crust of Khaki colored dust
That makes you feel your limbs are growing older,
And it's not the hike on the hard turnpike,
That wipes a – way your smile,
Nor the socks of sister's that raise the blooming blisters,
It's the last long mile.
Some day they'll send us over and they'll put us in a trench,
Takin' pot shots at the Firt-zes with the Tom-mies and the French,
And some day we'll be marching through a town across the Rhine,
And then you bet we'll all forget these mournful words of mine:
Oh, it's not the pack that you carry on your back,
Nor the Springfield on your shoulder,
Nor the five inch crust of Khaki colored dust
That makes you feel your limbs are growing older,
And it's not the hike on the hard turnpike,
That wipes a – way your smile,
Nor the socks of sister's that raise the blooming blisters,
It's the last long mile.
Oh, it's not the pack that you carry on your back,
Nor the Springfield on your shoulder,
Nor the five inch crust of Khaki colored dust
That makes you feel your limbs are growing older,
And it's not the hike on the hard turnpike,
That wipes a – way your smile,
Nor the socks of sister's that raise the blooming blisters,
It's the last long mile.