Strained their eyes mistaking white caps for a humpback Prussian sub
Just at twilight when “the danger’s great, they say.”
When their ship had lost the convoy they were worried just a bit,
And rather thought the skipper should be canned;
And the sigh of heartfelt feeling almost set the boat to reeling
When each of those two million sighted land.
There’s about two million fellows that have landed here in France,
They’re scattered God and G.H.Q. know where;
By the cranes where steamers anchor, schooner, tramp, or greasy tanker,
There’s an O.D. outfit waiting just to make the cargo dance.