There's a fresh-healed wound on the chestnut,
The black mare's neck has a mark,
The brown mules now mute, most keep the same gait,
As the one killed last night in the dark.

But they walk with the spirit of heroes.
They dare not for medals or cross,
But for duty alone, into perils unknown
They go, never counting their loss.

There's a swift, painless death for the hopeless,
With a grave in a shell-hole or field,
There's a hospital base for the casualty case,
And a vet. for those easily healed :

But there's never a shadow of glory,
A cheer or a speech in their praise,
As patient and true they carry us through
With the limbers on shot-riven ways.

So here's to dumb heroes of Britain
Who serve her as nobly and true
As the best of her sons, 'mid the roar of the guns,
And the best of her boys on the blue.

They are shell-shocked, they're bruised, and they're broken,
They are wounded and torn as they fall,
But they're true and they're brave to the very grave,
And they're heroes one and all.