And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle
Rendition by Liam Clancy
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Now when I was a young man, I carried me pack,
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Morray's green basin, to the dusty Outback,
I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time to stop ramblin' - there's 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,
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amid all the tears, flag-waving and cheers,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.
Well I remember that terrible day,
When our blood stained the sand and the water,
And how, in that Hell, that the called Suvla Bay,
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Jonny Turk, he was ready - oh, 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.
Nearly blew us back home to Australia.
And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
When we stopped to bury our slain,
And we buried ours, and the Turks bury theirs,
Then it started all over again.
Those who were living just tried to survive,
In that mad world of blood, death, and fire.
And for ten weary weeks, I kepy myself alive,
Though 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, then I wished I were dead.
I never knew there were worse things than dying.
For no more I'll go Waltzing Matilda,
All around the green bush far and free.
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 sent us back home to Australia.
The armless, legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was no one there waiting for me,
To grieve, and to mourn, and to pity.
And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered. They just stood there, and stared.
Then they turned all their faces away.
So now, every April, I sit on me porch,
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Renewing their dreams of past glory.
I see the old men, all tired stiff and sore,
The 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,
And the old men still answer the call.
But as year follows year, more old men disappear.
Someday no one will march there at all.
Waltzing Matilda...
Waltzing Matilda...
Who'll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me?
And their ghosts, may be heard,
As they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-waltzing, Matilda...
...with me?
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Any Nation's Zenith: Armistice & Coexistance
~Umi