Dust and smoke against the sunrise out where grim disaster lurks
And a broken sky-line looming like unfinished railway works,
And a trot, trot, trot and canter down inside the belt of mines:
It is General Greybeard Shrapnel who is riding round his lines.

And the scarecrows from the trenches, haggard eyes and hollow cheeks,
War-stained uniforms and ragged that have not been off for weeks;
They salute him and they cheer him and they watch his face for signs;
Ah! they try to read old Greybeard while he-s riding round the lines.

There-s a crack, crack, crack and rattle; there-s a thud and there-s a crash;
In the battery over yonder there is something gone to smash,
Then a hush and sudden movement, and its meaning he divines,
And he patches up a blunder while he-s riding round his lines.

Pushing this position forward, bringing that position back,
While his officers, with orders, ride like hell down hell-s own track;
Making hay-and to what purpose?-while his sun of winter shines,
But his work is just beginning when he-s ridden round his lines.

There are fifty thousand rifles and a hundred batteries
All a-playing battle music, with his fingers on the keys,
And if for an hour, exhausted, on his camp bed he reclines,
In his mind he still is riding-he is riding round his lines.

He-s the brains of fifty thousand, blundering at their country-s call;
He-s the one hope of his nation, and the loneliest man of all;
He is flesh and blood and human, though he never shews the signs:
He is General Greybeard Shrapnel who is fixing up his lines.

It is thankless work and weary, and, for all his neighbour knows,
He may sometimes feel as if he doesn-t half care how it goes;
But for all that can be gathered from his eyes of steely blue
He might be a great contractor who has some big job to do.

There-s the son who died in action-it may be a week ago;
There-s the wife and other troubles that most men have got to know-
(And we-ll say the grey-haired mother underneath the porch of vines):
Does he ever think of these things while he-s riding round his lines?

He is bossed by bitter boobies who can never understand;
He is hampered by the asses and the robbers of the land,
And I feel inclined to wonder what his own opinions are
Of the Government, the country, of the war and of the Czar.

He-s the same when he-s advancing, he-s the same in grim retreat;
For he wears one mask in triumph and the same mask in defeat;
Of the brave he is the bravest, he is strongest of the strong:
General Greybeard Shrapnel never shows that anything is wrong.

But we each and all are lonely, and we have our work to do;
We must fight for wife and children or our country and our screw
In the everlasting struggle to the end that fate destines;
In the war that men call living we are riding round our lines.

I ride round my last defences, where the bitter jibes are flung,
I am patching up the blunders that I made when I was young,
And I may be digging pitfalls and I may be laying mines;
For I sometimes feel like Shrapnel while I-m riding round my lines.