THE RUSSIAN march is soft and slow, Through dust and heat, or slush and snow, When the Russian skies hang grey and low To the frontiers far where the Russians go; And they march to-night and they march to-day Like the grey wolves grey, like the grey wolves grey.
Nor song nor sound their track reveals, Save the ceaseless "clock" of the waggon wheels; But a rift in the mist shows a glint of sun On the long, dark shape of a toiling gun; And they strain by night and they drag by day To a distant goal, like the grey wolves grey.
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