And wonder, heath and bog are everywhere
Not a bird sings out to cheer us
Oaks are standing, gaunt and bare
We are the people of soldiers
Marching with our spades to the moor
Up and down the guards are pacing
No one, no one can get through
Flight would mean a sure death facing
Guns and barbed wire greet our view
We are the people of soldiers
Marching with our spades to the moor
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But for us, there is no complaining
Winter will in time be past
One day we shall cry rejoicing
Hold on dear, you're mine at last
No more the beatbox soldiers
Marching with our spades to the moor
Marching with our spades to the moor
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