|
With never a sound of trumpet With never a flag displayed, The last of the old campaigners Lined up for their last parade. Weary they were and battered Shoeless, and knocked about; From under their ragged forelocks Their hungry eyes looked out. And they watched as the old commander Read out to the cheering men, The nation's thanks and the orders To carry them home again. And the last of the old campaigners Sinewy, lean and spare He spoke for his hungry comrades: "Have we not done our share?" "Starving and tired and thirsty, We limped on the blazing plain; After a long night's picket You saddled us again. "We froze on the widswept kopjes When the frost lay snowy white. Never a halt in the daytime, Never a rest at night! "We knew when the rifles rattled From the hillside bare and brown, And over our weary shoulders We felt warm blood running down. "As we turned for the stretching gallop, Crushed to the earth with weight: But we carried our riders through it Carried them perhaps too late. "Steel we were steel to stand it We that have lasted through, We that are old campaigners Pitiful, poor and few. "Over the sea you brought us, Over the leagues of foam: Now we have served you fairly Will you not take us home? "Home to the Hunter River, To the flats where the lucerne grows; Home where the Murrumbidgee Runs white with melted snows. This is a small thing surely! Will you not give command That the last of the old campaingers Go back to their native land?" They looked at the grim commander, But never a sign he made. "Dismiss!" and the old campaingners Moved off from their last parade. And that was our thanks for service As battered, weary and sore They were led out and shot in the desert Their services wanted no more. So when we think of a Government's justice What's right and what's wrong with our law Maybe, maybe one day, we will judge their cause Those gallant brave horses of war. -- AB "Banjo" Paterson |
