I'VE LAID MY HEAD ON FOREIGN SOIL,
FROM "PINDI" TO MADRAS,
AND MARCHED FOR MILES THROUGH TROPIC DUST,
AND SUNBURNED INDIAN GRASS.

BRIGHT MOON HAS BEEN MY CANDLE LIGHT,
MY ROOF THE BURMESE SKY,
I'VE LAID AND PONDERED MANY THINGS,
BUT THE QUESTION STILL IS WHY?

THE INDUS RIVER I HAVE CROSSED,
AND WASHED FROM HER COLD BREAST,
WHITE SANDS OF SIND HAS FILLED MY EYES,
AS I TRAVELLED DUE NORTH WEST.

MY FRIENDS HAVE DIED FROM PATHAN GAS,
DEAD EYES UP TO THE SKY,
I'VE LAID AND PONDERED MANY THINGS,
BUT THE QUESTION STILL IS WHY?

THIS COUNTRY'S YOUTH FOR YEARS HAVE STOOD,
ON OUTPOSTS FAR AWAY,
SOME OF THEM NEVER TO RETURN,
IN FOREIGN SOIL THEY LAY.

FOR EVER BRITISH THEIR REMAINS,
THEIR SOULS SCREAM TO THE SKY,
THEY LAY SO QUIET AND PONDER NOT
BUT THE QUESTION STILL IS WHY?