Wherever the eye watches
Bog and heath all around
No chirping of birds entertains us
Oaks are standing bare and crooked
We are the bog soldiers
And we are marching with our spade; into the bog
We are Bog soldiers
And we are marching with our spade; into the bog
Here inside this barren marshland
The camp is built up,
Where we are, far from any joy,
Stowed away behind barbed wire.
We are the bog soldiers
And we are marching with our spade; into the bog
In the morning, all of us
March towards our work.
Then we dig under the searing sun,
But our mind yearns toward our home.
We are the bog soldiers
And we are marching with our spade; into the bog
Homeward, homeward everyone yearns
To the parents, wife, and children,
Some chests are widened by a sigh,
Because we are caught in here.
We are the bog soldiers
And we are marching with our spade; into the bog
But for us there is no complaining,
It can’t be an endless winter.
One day we’ll say happily:
“Home! You are mine again!”
Then will the bog soldiers
March no more with the spades to the bog
Then will the bog soldiers
March no more with the spades
To the bog.