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And the Band played Waltzin' Matilda

Bless 'em all for audio

• Bless 'em all, bless 'em all

  • the long and the short and the tall

  • Bless all the sergeants and WO1's

  • Bless all the Corporals

  • and their blessed sons,

• Cos......................

  • We're saying "Good-bye" to 'em all,

  • as back to our billets we crawl,

  • We'll get no promotion this side of the ocean

  • So, cheer up, my lads, Bless 'em ALL.

Editors note. Some naughty soldiers actually replaced the word 'bless' with another word that has only 4 letters.

We're all Australian's Now

Australia takes her pen in hand,
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand,
How proud we are of you.

From shearing shed and  cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,
Each native-born Australian son,
stands straighter up today.

The man who used to "hump his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs,
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.

The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.

The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more
We're all Australians now!

Our six-starred flag that used to fly,
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,

Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict'ry at the prow;
For that's the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!

The mettle that a race can show
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.

The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill,
May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.

With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.

Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!

So now we'll toast the Third Brigade,
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.

Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.

And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle bough,
To symbolise our unity,
We're all Australians now.

for audio

for editors notes

When I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, 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 marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he'd primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell 
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask m'self the same question.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
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?

Editors Notes.

Eric Bogle is a fine musician and a wonderful song writer. As a historian he is a wonderful song writer and a fine musician. In his self admitted desire to be "anti-war" he gets his facts mixed up. In the Liner Notes for Eric Bogle- LIVE he is quoted as saying that 50,000 Australians were killed at Gallipoli. The figure was actually 8,000. His song indicates that it was all a waste and that the sacrifice was in vain. That is, of course, nonsense. He also says "that Australia takes ANZAC Day so seriously that the pubs are closed, the only day this happens". He is wrong on two counts.1, the pubs are not closed and, 2; even if they were it would not be the only day. Pubs ARE shut on Good Friday.

On another interview he says, in part, It (ANZAC ) is important in Australia, because at Gallipoli, in 1915, for the first time, the Australian soldiers had Australian officers - before then, the Australian army had British officers. Once again, untrue on two counts. 1; Australia had never before sent an Expeditionary Force overseas (The South African War started before Federation and Australian Officers served in Sth Africa) and our troops had always, in peace and war, had a mixture of British and Australian Officers and 2; at Gallipoli the ANZAC's were still under British Officers at senior levels.

I contend that anyone with any balance of judgement will agree that although war is evil, wars must on some occasions be fought as the alternative is even more evil. To suggest that WWI was 'England's War' and somehow not ours is to miss two things. 1...That had the Germans and their allies prevailed over Britain and France,  Australia's future would have been very uncertain;  and 2...No Australian was sent anywhere unless he volunteered. To go back now and say that those men made that sacrifice in stupidity is an offence to 330,000 soldiers who served and a slur on the 61,919 who did not come back. Perhaps Eric Bogle should keep writing songs and hire someone else to do his historical research.

Let the poets make the argument. . .

Mademoiselle from Armentieres

• "Mademoiselle from Armentieres, 

  • Parley-voo

• Sang the Diggers between their beers, 

  • Parley-voo

• And the ballad roared by the soldiers gay,

• Rang through the old Estaminet

  • Inky-pinky, parley-voo !

• Mademoiselle enjoyed the din,

  • Parley-voo!

• As she tripped around with the bock and vin,

  • Parley-voo!

• And Mademoiselle, in a manner gay,

• Trolled a stave of the ribald lay

  • Inky-pinky, parley-voo !

• There were men from Wagga and Gundagai,

  • Parley-voo!

• From Perth, and The Towers, and Boggabri,

  • Parley-voo

• From Sydney City and Dandenong,

• Sinking their troubles in wine and song

  • Inky-pinky, parley-voo !

   

• There was one young Digger, tanned and lean,

  • Parley-voo!

• From the Darling Downs, or the Riverine,

  • Parley-voo!

• Who set her heart in a rapturous whirl

• When he vowed that she was his Dinkum Girl

  • Inky-pinky, parley-voo !

   

• They laughed and loved in the old French town.

  • Parley-voo!

• And her heart spoke out of her eyes of brown

  • Parley-voo

• But the time fled by, and there came a day

• When he and his cobbers all marched away

  • Inky-pinky, parley -voo

• Maybe on a field of France he fell,

  • Parley-voo

• No word came back to Mademoiselle,

  • Parley-voo

• But a pretty French girl, with eyes of brown,

• Prays for him still in a war-swept town,

  • Inky-pinky, parley-voo !

   

• Quiet it is in the old estaminet,

  • Parley-voo

• No more Diggers will come that way,

  • Parley-voo!

• May your heart grow light with passing years,

• Oh, Mademoiselle from Armentieres !

  • Inky-pinky, parley-voo !

What are you guarding ?

"What are you guarding, Man-at-Arms?
Why do you watch and wait?"
"I guard the graves," said the Man-at-Arms,
"I guard the graves by Flanders Farms,
Where the dead will rise at my call to arms,
And march to the Menin Gate."

"When do they march then, Man-at-Arms?
Cold is the hour and late."
"They march tonight," said the Man-at-Arms,
"With the moon on the Menin Gate.
They march when the midnight bids them go,
With their rifles slung and their pipes aglow,
Along the roads - the roads they know,
The road to the Menin Gate."

"What are they singing, Man-at-Arms
As they march to the Menin Gate?"
"The marching songs," said the Man-at-Arms,
"That let them laugh at Fate;
No more will the night be cold for them,
For the last tattoo has rolled for them;
And their souls will sing as of old for them,

As they march to the Menin Gate."

A BROWN SLOUCH HAT for audio

J Albert & Son, Sydney, 1942

There is a symbol, we love and adore it
You see it daily wherever you go.
Long years have passed since our fathers once wore it,
What is the symbol that we should all know,

It's a brown slouch hat with the side turned up, and it means the world to me,
Its the symbol of our Nation, the land of Liberty.
And as soldiers they wear it, how proudly they bear it for all the world to see.

Just a brown slouch hat with the side turned up, heading straight for Victory.

Don't you thrill as young Bill passes by
Don't you beam at the gleam in his eye?
Head erect, shoulders square, tunic spic and span
Ev'ry inch a soldier and ev'ry inch a man.

As they swing down the street, aren't they grand?
Three abreast to the beat of the band.
But what do we remember when the boys have passed along,
Marching by so brave and strong.

Just a brown ....

The Men who make the stew

• We may point out all the factors that we think had won the war;

  • We may boast of decorations men have won;

  • We may talk about the good work of the Army Service Corps,

  • Or the men who stood behind a Lewis gun;

  • But there's just one group of Diggers to whom words of praise are due;

  • It's the greasy, grimy chaps that kept the troops supplied with stew.

• We may think back on the dangers of the old days on the Somme,

  • We may prate about hard times in Palestine

  • But we never had to worry where our food was coming from

  • When we stood in mud and water in the Line.

  • For we knew that, black and grimy, somewhere just beyond the Fuss,

  • Were some good old brother Diggers making army stew for us.

• We may brag about the dangers that we faced through nights of storm,

  • When the Huns threw hurtful scraps of steel about;

  • While we cursed old Kaiser Willhelm till the atmosphere grew warm,

  • And we wondered when the Heads would pull us out.

  • But the cooks were ever cooking, through the cold and rain and heat

  • For they had to feed the army; and the troops must always eat.

• We may growl about the marches that we did on blistered feet,

  • With backs that almost broke beneath the strain;

  • But the blessed cooks were with us and we had some grub to eat,

  • To feed the worms and ease our stomach pain.

  • And an epicurean pleasure, and a certain peace of mind

  • Was engendered by the knowledge of the cookers on behind.

• Armies march upon their stomachs, so old Bonaparte has said.

  • And thoughts like this have come to not a few

  • There's a great sustaining power for the fighting men ahead

  • In a dixie full of hot and steaming stew.

  • And our hearts were singing praises as we backed our carts for more

  • To the grimy, greasy Digger cooks who helped to win the war.

WHY WEAR A POPPY?

"Please wear a poppy." The lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care.

But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on carefree feet.

His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," he said, "May I have one".
When she pinned it on , he turned to say;
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"

The Lady smiles in her wistful way
And she answered "This is Remembrance Day
And the poppy there is symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.

And because they did you and I are free
That's why we wear a poppy ,you see.
I had a boy about your size
With golden hair and big blue eyes.

He loved to play and jump and shout
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
And became a man as you will too.

He was fine and strong with a boyish smile,
But he'd been with us such a little while
When war broke out, and he went away.
I still remember that day.

When he smiled at me and said, "Goodbye,
I'll be back soon Mum, so please don't cry."
But the war went on and he had to stay
And all I could do was wait and pray.

His letter told of the awful fight
(I can see it still in my dreams at night)
With the tanks, the guns and the cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and the fire.

Till at last, at last the war was won,
And that's why we wear a poppy, son."
The boy turned as if to go,
Then he said, "Thanks Lady, I'm glad to know.

That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son, did he come back alright?"
A tear rolled down each faded cheek;
She shook her head but did not speak.

I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me, you'd have done the same
For our thanks, in giving, is oft delayed.
Tho' our freedom was bought and thousands paid.

And so, when we see a poppy worn
Let us reflect on a burden borne
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live
Then wear a poppy. Remember and Give.

The Quartermaster's Song

There are snakes, snakes,  
Big as garden rakes,
At the store! At the store!
There are snakes, snakes, 
Big as garden rakes, at the Quartermaster's store.

Chorus
My eyes are dim I can-not see.
I have not got my specs with me.
I have HAVE NOT GOT my specs with me.

There are mice, mice, 
Running though the rice,
In the store! In the store!
There are mice, mice,  
Running through the rice, in the Quartermaster's store.

Chorus

Continue with each of the following:
3. lice - living on the mice.
4. rats - big as alley cats.
5. roaches - big as football coaches
6. bears - but no one really cares
7. beavers - with little meat cleavers
8. foxes - stuffed in little boxes

Pozières and Passchendaele

A hot sun hung in a brazen sky,

And the fields we trampled were brown and bare,

And our throats, you remember, were parched and dry

When you got your issue at Pozières

But earth and sky were a sodden mess.

And the mud was churned 'neath a leaden hail;

And we lay in a muddle of filthiness

When I collected at Passchendaele.

Summer and Winter, the seasons pass.

Spring and Autumn, they come and go.

Skies of lead turn to skies of brass,

And where are the Diggers we used to know?

Faster and faster with each swift year

The Diggers go on their last lone trial,

Since you got your issue at Pozières,

And I collected at Passchendaele.

And it may be near, or it may be far,

And it may be a season of sun, or rain,

When we say farewell to the things that are,

With a hope that it has not been all in vain.

And it may be that everything will be clear

When we meet the Diggers beyond the veil.

And we'll find the reason for Pozières

And we'll know the purpose of Passchendaele.

Oscar Walters (taken from his book Carry On - The Traditions of the AIF) 

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