You have seen the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,You have heard the band blare out Britannic songs;You have read a ton of papers and you've thrown them at your feet,And your brain's a battlefield for fighting throngs.You have cheered for Tommy Atkins, and you've yelled for Jack Canuck;You have praised the French and Belgians, every one.But I'm rhyming here a measure to the valor and the pluckOf the Girl Behind the Man Behind the Gun.
There's a harder game than fighting; there's a deeper wound by farThan the bayonet or the bullet ever tore.And a patient, little woman wears upon her heart a scarWhich the lonesome years will keep for evermore.There are bands and bugles crying and the horses madly ride.And in passion are the trenches lost or won.But SHE battles in the silence, with no comrade at her side,Does the girl behind the man behind the gun.
They are singing songs in Flanders and there's music in the wind;They are shouting for their country and their king.But the hallways yearn for music in the homes they left behind,For the mother of a soldier does not sing.In the silence of the night time, 'mid a ring of hidden foes.And without a bugle cry to cheer her on.She is fighting fiercer battles than a soldier ever knows;And her triumph--is an open grave at dawn.
You have cheered the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,But you quite forgot to cheer another line.They are plodding sadly homeward, with no music for their feet,To a far more lonely river than the Rhine.Ah! the battlefield is wider than the cannon's sullen roar;And the women weep o'er battles lost or won.For the man a cross of honor; but the crepe upon the doorFor the girl behind the man behind the gun.
When the heroes are returning and the world with flags is red,When you show the tattered trophies of the war,When your cheers are for the living and your tears are for the deadWhich the foeman in the battle trampled o'er.When you fling your reddest roses at the horsemen in array,With their helmets flaming proudly in the sun,I would bid you wear the favor of an apple-blossom sprayFor the girl behind the man behind the gun.
