WE wander now who marched before, br Hawking our bran from door to door, br While other men from the mill take their flour: br So it is to be an Old Soldier. br br Old, bare and sore, we look on the hound br Turning upon the stiff frozen ground, br Nosing the mould, with the night around: br So it is to be an Old Soldier. br br And we who once rang out like a bell, br Have nothing now to show or to sell; br Old bones to carry, old stories to tell: br So it is to be an Old Soldier.