December the seventh a Sunday noon
We packed up our kits in the camp in Kowloon
While cursing manoeuvres as all soldiers will
The garrison throbs with expectants thrill
Intangible tension prevails the still air
And every Canuck is alert and aware
While back at the border behind the Grey Town
The brown hills of China stare hatefully down
Kowloon's on the mainland as most of you know
The ferry to Hong Kong is painfully slow
We disembark swiftly and swing down the street
A faint sense of urgency hastens our feet
We climb up to "Wanchai" with never a stop
To man battle stations on reaching the top
We're facing the border the heavy guns frown
On the brown hills of China behind the Grey Town
The Colony hums like an overturned hive
For the Hong Kong defenders are looking alive
Preparing positions, extracted intact
From the head of some General vacuum packed
We glance at the mainland with questioning eyes
While over the border the sun's setting down
Beneath the brown hills of China behind the Grey Town
Strike tents is the order, so we comply
And slumber uneasily under the sky
The stars shine serenely as never before
And wink their denials of rumours of war
The frontiers are quiet no strident alarm
Then why do we fear for our comrades in arms
Who guard on the Border the land of the crown
And the brown hills of China behind the Grey Town
Awaken Canucks ere the thunder of war
Roll through hills looking blackly ashore
Waken to drink with a courage that's met
Canada's share in the gall of defeat
Fate on the morrow will hand you the cup
At five in the morning the curtain goes up
Bursting the border the foe will pour down
Through the brown hills of China behind the Grey Town
