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


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