Even Goats May Have Starlight

It's Easy To Fight When Everything's Right And You're Mad With The Thrill And The Glory; It's Easy To Cheer When Victory's Near, And Wallow In Fields That Are Gory. It's A Different Song When Everything's Wrong, When You're Feeling Infernally Mortal; When It's Ten Against One, And Hope There Is None, Buck Up, Little Soldier, And Chortle!

There's A Race Of Men That Don't Fit In, A Race That Can't Sit Still; So They Break The Hearts Of Kith And Kin, And They Roam The World At Will. They Range The Field And Rove The Flood, And They Climb The Mountain's Crest; Their's Is The Curse Of The Gypsy Blood, And They Don't Know How To Rest.

His Life, Though None Too Long, Was Never Dull: Of Woman, Wine And Song Bill Had His Full.

Alas! The Road To Anywhere Is Pitfalled With Disaster; There's Hunger, Want, And Weariness, Yet O We Loved It So! As On We Tramped Exultantly, And No Man Was Our Master, And No Man Guessed What Dreams Were Ours, As, Swinging Heel And Toe, We Tramped The Road To Anywhere, The Magic Road To Anywhere, The Tragic Road To Anywhere, Such Dear, Dim Years Ago.

When Children's Children Shall Talk Of War As A Madness That May Not Be; When We Thank Our God For Our Grief Today, And Blazon From Sea To Sea In The Name Of The Dead The Banner Of Peace ... That Will Be Victory.