When I was a young man I carried my pack, and I lived the free life of a rover. From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback, I waltzed my Matilda all over. Then in nineteen fifteen me country said, Son, its time to stop rambling, theres work to be done. So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun, and they sent me away to the war. And the band played Waltzing Matilda when the ship pulled away from the quay. And amid all the tears, flag waving and cheers, we sailed off for Galipoli. Oh its well I remember that terrible day, when our blood stained the sand and the water. And how in that hell they called Suvla Bay we were butchered like lambs at the slaughter. Johnny Turk, he was ready, he primed himself well he rained us with bullets and he showered us with shell. And in five minutes flat we were all blown to hell, he nearly blew us back home to Australia. And the band played Waltzing Matilda, when we stopped to bury our slain. While we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs, then it started all over again. Oh, those that were living just tried to survive, in that mad world of blood, death and fire. And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive when around me the corpses piled higher. Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head, and when I awoke in me hospital bed, and saw what it had done, I wished I was dead, I never knew there was worse things than dying. For no more Ill go Waltzing Matilda, all around the green bush, far and near. For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs, no more Waltzing Matilda for me. They collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed, and they shipped us back home to Australia. The armless, the legless, the blind and the insane, those proud wounded heroes of Suvla. And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay, I looked at the place where me leg used to be. And thanked Christ, there was no one a waiting for me, to grieve, and to mourn, and to pity. And the band played Waltzing Matilda, while they carried us down the gangway. Oh, nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared, then they turned all those faces away. So now every April I sit on my porch, and I watch the parade pass before me. I see my old comrades, how proudly they march, renewing the dreams of past glory. I see the old men, all tired, stiff and worn, those weary old heroes of a forgotten war. And the young people ask What are they marching for? and I ask myself the same question. And the band plays Waltzing Matilda, and the old men still answer the call. But year after year their numberll get fewer, some day no one will march there at all. Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda, wholl come a-waltzing matilda with me? And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the Billabong, oh, wholl come a-waltzing matilda with me?
Posted on: Sat, 11 Oct 2014 22:06:23 +0000
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