Mud to left and mud to right,
Mud all day and mud all night,
Mud that percolates like cream,
Mud that haunts us in our dream,
Mud that half-alive will creep
Up our blanket as we sleep,
Mud that draws our boots and socks,
Mud that jams our rifle locks,
Mud that soaks us to the skin
Either out of trench or in,
Mud on hands and hair and feet,
Mud in drink and mud on meat,
Mud that crusts the new-made loaf,
Kipling! here’s your “muddied oaf”
Doing all a man can do,
Cheerful mudlarks muddling through,
Playing in war’s fiercest game
For God’s right and Britain’s name.

(The European War 1914-1915 Poems, p. 145)