Red blood shod faced soldiers,
With mud clad boots,
March on through,

With rough ragged clothes,
Alongside their battered guns,
March on through,

In their makeshift trenches,
In the motor storm,
They march on through,

In the muddy sludge,
Flea-ridden rats scuttle,
But they still march on through,

As he, the lone solider,
Stood over the battlefield,
Still marching on through,

It covered in red poppies,
Remembering what had happen,
Still marching on through.