| Lyrics
& Liner Notes
1. ANZAC Cove
Words: Leon Gellert, Gallipoli (1915),
Music: Bob Rummery
Leon Gellert was born in Adelaide in 1892. He was one of the first
Australians to enlist and took part in the landings at Gallipoli.
After three months he was wounded and taken to England. The following
year he was discharged and sent home to Australia.
Bob Rummery is a singer, musician and folklorist from W.A.
There’s a lonely stretch of hillocks;
There’s a beach asleep and drear;
There’s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken, trampled graves;
And a little rotting pier:
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
There’s a torn and silent valley:
There’s a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth
There are lines of buried bones:
There’s an unpaid waiting debt:
There’s the sound of gentle sobbing in the south.
2. Long March Medley
Pack Up Your Troubles
Music: Felix Powell, Words: George Henry
Powell (a.k.a. Asaf) 1912
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and
smile, smile, smile.
While there’s a Lucifer to light your fag, smile boys, that’s
the style.
What’s the use in worrying, it never was worthwhile,
So - Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile,
smile.
Charlie Chaplin
Parody of ‘Red Wing’ original
words by Thurland Chattaway, music by Kerry Mills (1907).
Oh, the moon shines tonight on Charlie Chaplin,
He’s going barmy to join the army,
And his old baggy trousers want a-mending,
Before they send him to the Dardanelles
Oh, the moon shines tonight on Charlie Chaplin
His boots are cracking through want of blacking,
And his old fusty coat is wanting mending,
Before they send him to the Dardanelles.
Long Way to Riverina
Parody to the marching song ‘Long
Way to Tipperary’.
Words and Music by Jack Judge & Harry Williams (1912).
It’s a long way to Riverina, it’s
a long way to go.
It’s a long way to Riverina, to the sweetest girl I know.
Goodbye Wagga Wagga, Farewell dear old Hay
It’s a long, long way to Riverina - but we’ll get
there some day.
3.
For England (Excerpt)
Poem by Corporal James Drummond Burns,
Gallipoli (1915).
James was twenty years of age when he was killed in action at
Gallipoli in 1915.
The bugles of England were blowing o’er
the sea
As they called a thousand years, calling to me;
They woke me from my dreaming in the dawning of the day
The bugles of England – and how could I stay?
The banners of England, unfurled across the
sea,
Floating out upon the wind, were beckoning to me;
Storm-rent and battle torn, smoke stained and grey,
The banners of England – and how could I stay?
4.
The Route March
Words: Henry Lawson (1915), Music: Cathie
O’Sullivan (1979)
Did you hear the children singing, O my brother?
O my sisters?*
Did you hear the children singing as our troops went marching
past?
In the sunshine and the rain as they’ll never sing again
–
Hear the little schoolgirls singing as our troops went swinging
past?
Did you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
O my sisters? *
Did you hear the children singing for the first man and the last?
As they marched away and vanished, to a tune we thought was banished
–
Did you hear the children singing for the future and the past?
Shall you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
O my sisters? *
Shall you hear the children singing in the sunshine or the rain?
There’ll be sobs beneath the ringing of the cheers, and
‘neath the singing
There’ll be tears of orphan children when Our Boys come
back again!
* “O my sisters” was added by Cathie
O’Sullivan.
5.
The Banks of the Murray
Our version of this traditional Australian
song comes from the singing of Neville Drysdale who learnt the
song while working in the shearing sheds of central NSW. We have
also added a few words from a version by traditional singer, musician
and folklorist Alan Musgrove.
In a neat little cot on the banks of the Murray,
Lived the wife of a soldier with children so poor.
Their father left home with a gun on his shoulder
To sail by a transport to Egypt’s bright shores.
And these were the words that were uttered when
parting,
“Goodbye my mother, goodbye my son,
And kiss little Daisy, my dear darling daughter,
And say I’ll return when the battle is won”.
The transport sailed on to the thick of the
slaughter,
And landed our boys at the thick of the fray.
Our hero was shot at the Dardanelles battle,
And mortally wounded and dying did say.
“Give this watch to my dear darling mother,
Give little Daisy my locket and chain,
And the rest you may give to my dear wife and brother,
For God has denied me to see them again”.
The scenery has changed in that neat little
cottage;
A mother sits rocking a baby just born.
And a grey headed woman is weeping and wailing
For the son she loved dearly shall never return.
And poor little Daisy keeps asking for poppa,
And she waits every evening outside the front door.
Her poor aging mother says, rocking and moaning,
“Dear Daisy your father was killed in the war”.
6.
Boys of the Dardanelles
Words & music by Marsh Little (1915).
Popular Australian song of the time. The catchy tune also made
it’s way into the repertoire of many bush singers and dance
musicians.
Old England needs the men she breeds,
There’s fighting to be done.
Australians heard and were prepared,
To help her every son.
From out the bay they sailed away,
Our pride, Australia’s own,
And so today they’re far away,
And some in the great unknown.
Chorus
Boys of the Dardanelles,
They faced the shot and shells,
Down in hist’ry their fame will go,
Our children’s children their daring deeds will know.
Australian lads in khaki and in blue
Have shown the world what they can do
How they fought and fell the cables daily tell,
Boys of the Dardanelles.
Neath foreign skies with eager eyes,
Those boys of the Dardanelles
By the dear old flag with never a lag
Have fought and served it well,
From scraping keel, with plunging steel,
They quickly got to work.
In khaki kit they did their bit,
And soon were upon the Turk.
When war is o’er, and home once more,
Come boys from the Dardanelles.
To them we’ll raise our hats in praise,
And we’ll hear the stories they’ll tell.
It was their lot to get it hot,
Some quite new at the game.
Their gallant dash the foe to smash –
Will live on the roll of fame.
7.
Friday 14th May
Poem by Sergeant Cooper, Gallipoli (1915)
Same work
Same menu
Same dugout
Same rifle fire
Same shelling
Same early rising
Same late retiring
Same camp discussion
Same workshop in harbour
Same train of donkeys with water
Same hard working little mules
Same bully beef
Same biscuits
Above all same good old pipe I brought from Christchurch.
8.
Sing Me to Sleep
Parody of a popular song by Clifton Bingham
& Edwin Greene (1902).Collected by John Meredith from Arthur
Buchannan, who had fought at Gallipoli. We learnt the song from
Alan Musgrove and this is his edit of the words.
Sing me to sleep where bullets fall,
Help me forget the war and all.
Damp is my dugout, cold are my feet,
Nothing but biscuits and bully to eat.
Sing me to sleep where bombs explode,
With shrapnel shells around the mould.
Over the sandbags and helmets you’ll find
Corpses in front of us, corpses behind.
Far from Gallipoli I want to be,
Where Turkish snipers can’t snipe at me.
Think of me standing where Turkish creep,
Waiting for someone to sing me to sleep.
Sing me to sleep in some old shed,
Where fleas are busy around my head.
Stretched out upon my waterproof,
Dodging the raindrops through the roof.
Sing me to sleep where campfires glow,
To two three course dinners I wouldn’t say no.
Dreams of the Savoy, the opera as well,
Wishing that all of the Turks were in heaven -
Far from the Lone Pine I want to be,
Lights of Australia I’d rather see.
Think of me standing; my guard I’ll keep,
But I’d rather have my girl to sing me to sleep.
9.
Hic Jacet
W.A. poet Tom “Crosscut” Wilson,
who fought at Gallipoli, wrote this set of words on the 26th on
November, 1916. The tune is another beauty from Bob Rummery.
I buried a Turk in a darksome gorge by officer's
orders one evening grey –
I had finished my 'twenty-four hours on' and was leaving the trench
at the close of day.
"You must dig him in" - and the officer smiled; "he'll
need no volleys or muffled drums –
He's been in the sun for a week or so, and it's perfectly awful
the way he hums!"
So I filled my pipe ('twas a needful thing),
and I got in a blast ere I ventured near.
And I found him lying in shape grotesque 'neath an ominous cliff
that was grey and sheer.
He’d crawled to a shelter of prickly scrub - and I never
could tell you how looked his face –
But his horrible eyes were blindly turned to a thing he held -
'twas a portrait case!
Though little I worried for sights, and smells,
but this was a sight that it hurt to see,
For I fancied he clutched it in mute appeal ... and he seemed
to be holding it out to me.
And little and all as I liked the job, ere I started to cover
him o’er with sand,
I dropped me shovel and pick, and stooped and took the thing from
his grisly hand.
Oh! piteous thing in the sight of death - 'twas
the face of a beautiful dark-eyed boy:
A kiddie of six years old or so, who hugged to his bosom some
childish toy.
And his teeth peeped out in a roguish smile, and round the forehead
the dark curls clung –
As pretty a picture as e’er was seen of cherubic innocence
sweet and young.
Some wonderful writing in big, wide text was
scrawled on the back of the photograph.
And I said, "Old fellow" - to him who lay -"would
you ask for a lovelier epitaph?"
'Twas Turkish of course, and I could but guess but in good British
I'll swear 'twas this:
"With love to daddy, and please come home". . . and
marked with a crescent to mean a kiss.
There's little of sentiment one can feel when
it's each for himself in the firing line
But I couldn't but mutter a useless prayer that he hadn't gone
under to shot of mine.
And I pictured the woman who sits at home and waits with a longing
supine and dumb
For the `daddy' who lay in the darksome gorge - for the steps
of a husband that ne'er will come.
The shades of evening were drawing nigh ...
and a soldier has always work to do,
But I laid the picture upon his chest ere ever a shovel of dirt
I threw,
And I fashioned his mansion as best I could and I patted it even
and smooth and fair.
And I stood to attention and raised my hand in a last salute as
I left him there.
10.
War!
Poem by Leon Gellert, Gallipoli 1915
When my poor body died, - Alas!
I watched it topple down a hill
And sink beside a tuft of grass.
… I laughed like mad,
… And laughing still
I bowed and thanked the bit of shell
That set me free and made me glad.
Then, quietly,
I strolled to hell.
11.
The Army Song
Many versions of this song have been sung
by collections of soldiers all over the world. Loosely based on
a parody by Lewis Carroll which in turn was loosely based on ‘Star
of the Evening, Beautiful Star’, words & music by James
L. Sayles (1855). This is a selection of verses is largely taken
from a version by Bill Case, who sang the song in New Guinea during
World War 2.
Well I got drunk last night, I got drunk the
night before,
I’m going to get drunk tonight if I never get drunk anymore.
Oh, we don’t want no more of your army, gee but I would
like to go home.
Chorus:
Stars of the evening, beautiful evening stars
Stars of the evening, shining on the cookhouse door.
Well they gave us a uniform, they said that
it was fine,
But me and a couple of mates we can all fit into mine,
That’s why I’m finished with the army, that’s
why I want to go home.
Well I went to the cookhouse just to get a bite
to eat,
And there I saw the cooks mashing the ‘taters with their
feet,
So that’s why I hate the army, gee I would love to go home.
Well they built us toilets out in the open air,
The wind blew up our backsides and tickled us here & there,
Oh we are finished with your army, one day we’d like to
go home.
Now they give us army biscuits, they say they’re
mighty fine,
But one rolled off the table and it killed a mate of mine,
That’s why I’m fed up with the army, that’s
why I’d like to go home,
Now they give us chicken, they say it is the
best,
But we get the neck and the arsehole, and the officers get the
rest,
That’s why I hate the bloomin’ army, it’s the
reason why I’d love to go home.
Final Chorus:
Stars of the evening, beautiful evening stars
Stars of the evening shining on the shithouse door.
12.
The Jester in the Trench
Poem by Leon Gellert, Gallipoli 1915
“That just reminds me of a yarn,”
he said,
And everybody turned to hear his tale.
He had a thousand yarns inside his head.
They waited for him ready with their mirth,
And creeping smiles –
Then suddenly turned pale,
Grew still, and gazed upon the earth.
They heard no tale. No further word was said.
And with his untold fun, half-leaning on his gun,
They left him – dead.
13.
Suvla Bay / Home Sweet Home
Collector John Meredith mentions that
the traditional song ‘Suvla Bay’ may be based on an
older song, ‘An Old Australian Homestead’. This song
was banned in England and Australia as being treasonous. ‘Home
Sweet Home’: original words by John Howard Payne and music
by Henry Rowley Bishop. The song was first heard in London, in
1823, in Payne’s’ play ‘Clari’, but the
air had appeared in an earlier collection of Bishop’s as
a Sicilian tune. Usually played in 4/4 time, Alan Musgrove found
the tune as a waltz in the repertoire of the Victorian dance band
‘The Jerry Atrix’. This is how we’ve used the
tune here.
In an old Australian homestead, with roses round
the door,
A girl received a letter, 'twas a message from the war.
With her mother’s arms around her she gave way to sobs and
sighs,
And as she read the letter, the tears fell from her eyes.
Chorus:
Why do I weep, why do I pray?
My love’s asleep so far away;
He played his part that April day,
And now he lies on Suvla Bay.
She joined a band of sisters underneath the
cross of red,
To do her noble duty to a lover who now lay dead.
Many others came to woe her, but were sadly turned away,
As she told them her sad story of her love on Suvla Bay.
14.
Evacuation of Gallipoli
Company Quarter Master Sergeant Alfred
Leslie Guppy, Gallipoli 1915.
Not only muffled is our tread to cheat the foe.
We fear to rouse our honoured dead to hear us go.
Sleep sound, old friends – the keenest smart
Which, more than failure, wounds the heart
Is thus to leave you – thus to part.
Comrades, farewell!!
15. Home Sweet Home (Reprise)
16.
Ragtime Army
Parody by unknown author(s), to a hymn ‘The Church’s
One Foundation’, words: Samuel J. Stone (1866), music ‘Aurelia’
by Samuel S. Wesley (1864).
We are the Ragtime Army, the A-N-Z-A-C.
We cannot shoot. We don’t salute.
What bloody use are we?
And when we get to Berlin,
The Kaiser he will say,
“Mein Gott, mein Gott, what a bloody rotten lot, the A-N-Z-A-C!”
Note: Alternate last line: “Hoch, hoch!
Mein Gott, What a bloody odd lot, to get 6 bob a day!”
17. Fighting the Kaiser
Medley
Hiding in the Ammunition Van
We learnt this song from the singing of
Maysie Tucker of Salt Ash, NSW. Maysie picked the song up from
her Dad, who had sung the song in both the Anglo-Boer War and
World War 1, with the words changed subtly to suit.
Have I been in battle? Have I been in gaol?
Did I die for England? Listen to my tale.
One good Friday Tuesday, down in Timbuc-three,
I was with my regiment, I was there with me.
Me and three more corporals ‘neath the
broiling sun
Went to view the battle - after it was won.
Twenty thousand Frenchmen raised the battle cry,
But while the boys were fighting, where, oh where was I?
I was hiding in the ammunition van!
Midst the shot and shell I’ve been,
While me comrades fought as comrades ought,
I was nowhere to be seen.
I was covered over with the flag
Listening to the din and strife,
And when the war was o’er, out once more,
And that’s how I saved my life!
Mademoiselle
One of the many parodies in the tradition
begun with ‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres’ to the
tune ‘Skiboo’, which was originally a British Indian
Army song. The parodies appeared after 1915 when Armentieres became
a rest area behind British lines. This version was sung by the
Carrie Milliner (nee Bobbin) of Eden, NSW.
Mademoiselle, she bought a cow, parlez vous,
Mademoiselle, she bought a cow, parlez vous,
Mademoiselle, she bought a cow, but how to milk it she didn’t
know how,
Inky-pinky-parlez vous.
She pulled its tail instead of its tits, parlez
vous,
She pulled its tail instead of its tits, parlez vous,
She pulled its tail instead of its tits,
and all she got was a bucket of - inky, pinky parlez vous!
To Save Democracy
Parody of ‘Macnamara’s Band’
music by Shamus O’Connor, words by John J. Stanford (1917).
This verse went on to form a part of the Ewan MacColl song ‘Browned
Off’.
Oh the Colonel kicks the Major, and the Major
has a go,
He kicks the poor old captain who then kicks the NCO,
And as the kicks get harder, they are passed on down to me,
And I am kicked to bleeding hell, to save democracy!
Fighting the Kaiser
Parody of Waltzing Matilda.
Fighting the Kaiser, fighting the Kaiser,
Who’ll come a-fighting the Kaiser with me,
And we’ll drink all his beer, and eat up all his sausages,
Who’ll come a-fighting the Kaiser with me.
18.
To Arms!
In July 1915 The I.W.W, (International
Workers of the World or Wobblies) printed one of the more famous
anti-conscription posters of the war….
TO ARMS!!
Capitalists, Parsons, Politicians,
Landlords, Newspaper Editors, And
Other Stay-At-Home Patriots.
YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU IN THE TRENCHES!
WORKERS, FOLLOW YOUR MASTERS!!
19.
Dinky Di
Pointed parody of the popular traditional
tune known as ‘Villikins and His Dinah’, ‘Sweet
Betsy from Pike’, ‘Charlotte the Harlot’ and
many other names! We learnt this song from singer, songwriter
and historian John Dengate.
Well he came down to London and straight away
strode
To army headquarters in Horseferry Road
To see all the bludgers who dodge all the straff
By getting soft jobs on the headquarters’ staff.
Dinky di, dinky di, for I am a digger who won’t tell a lie.
Well, the lousy Lance Corporal said, “Pardon
me, please,
You’ve mud on your tunic and blood on your sleeve,
And you look so disgraceful that people will laugh.”
Said the lousy Lance Corporal on headquarters’ staff.
The digger just shot him – a murderous
glance,
Said he, “I’m just back from the balls-up in France,
Where whiz-bangs are flying and comforts are few
And brave men are dying for bastards like you!”
D inky di, dinky di, for I am a digger who won’t tell a
lie.
“We’re shelled on the left and we’re
shelled on the right
We’re bombed through the day and we’re bombed through
the night;
And if something don’t happen – and that very soon
–
There’ll be nobody left in the flamin’ platoon!”
Dinky di, dinky di, for I am a digger who won’t tell a lie.
Well, the question soon came to the ears of
Lord Gort
Who gave the whole matter a good deal of thought;
He awarded that digger a VC with bars
For giving that Corporal a kick up the arse.
Dinky di, dinky di, for I am a digger who won’t tell a lie.
20.
Take me Back to Dear Old Aussie
Parody of ‘Take Me Back to Dear
Old Blighty’. Original words and music by A. J. Mills, F.
Godfrey and B. Scott (1916).
Take me back to dear old Aussie, put me on a
boat to Sydney town,
Take me over there, dump me anywhere,
Brisbane, Melbourne, Adelaide, Perth, well I don’t care.
I just want to see my best girl; cuddling again we soon shall
be.
Blighty is a failure; take me to Australia, Aussie is the place
for me.
21.
Think This Of Me
Poem by Tom Skeyhill, Gallipoli 1915
Friends, I am no longer the careless lad
You knew so well in days of peace. War brings
Swift maturity – and the selfish things
And thoughts are mine no more. Instead there rings
A nobler sense within, and I am glad
That it is so. For two years I have had
The company of heroes, purple clad,
Baited like eagles, and prouder than kings.
22.
Scots of the Riverina
Words: Henry Lawson (1917), Music: Ade
Monsbourgh (1970)
The boy cleared out to the city from his home
at the harvest time
They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime.
The old man burned his letters, the first and the last he burned,
And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife’s
back was turned.
A year went past, and another. There were calls
from the firing-line;
They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no sign.
His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai –
They were Scots of the Riverina with ever the kirk hard by.
The boy came home on his ‘final’,
and the township’s bonfire burned.
His mother’s arms were about him; but the old man’s
back was turned.
The daughters begged for pardon till the old man raised his hand
–
A Scot of the Riverina who was hard to understand.
The boy was killed in Flanders, where the best
and the bravest die.
There were tears at the Grahame homestead, and grief in Gundagai;
But the old man ploughed at daybreak and the old man ploughed
till the mirk –
There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his household
went to the kirk.
The hurricane lamp in the rafters dimly and
dimly burned,
And the old man died at the table when the old wife’s back
was turned.
Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey hair
Outspread o’er the open Bible and a name rewritten there.
23.
Billy Hughes
An anti-conscription poem of unknown authorship.
That dirty traitor Billy Hughes is trying to
introduce
That damned conscription for boys and for men
And of course for him we have no use.
He’s a viper, a dirty low skunk, it’s a pity the ship
never sunk
When he sailed across the sea to the old country,
To fall at the feet of King Georgie!
24.
Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire
Words & music anonymous.
If you want to see the Generals I know where
they are,
I know where they are, I know where they are.
I you want to see the Generals I know where they are,
They’re meeting with the general staff.
I’ve seen them, I’ve seen them, meeting with the general
staff,
I’ve seen them, meeting with the general staff.
If you want to see the Officers I know where
they are,
I know where they are, I know where they are.
I you want to see the Officers I know where they are,
They’re hanging round the Folies Bergere
I’ve seen them, I’ve seen them, meeting with the general
staff,
I’ve seen them, hanging round the Folies Bergere.
If you want to see the Sergeant I know where
he is,
I know where he is, I know where he is.
If you want to see the Sergeant I know where he is,
He’s drinking all the company rum.
I’ve seen him, I’ve seen him, drinking all the company
rum,
I’ve seen him, drinking all the company rum.
If you want to see your husband I know where
he is,
I know where he is, I know where he is.
If you want to see your husband I know where he is,
He’s hanging on the old barbed wire.
I’ve seen him, I’ve seen him, hanging on the old barbed
wire,
I’ve seen him, hanging on the old barbed wire.
25.
The Sleeper Cutters’ Camp
Dan Sheahan wrote "The Sleeper Cutters'
Camp" at Messines, France, in June, 1917. Dan posted it to
Australia, but it was banned by the Commonwealth Censor. Poet
and singer Denis Kevans wrote the tune.
My sole address at present is a battle-field in France,
If it's ever going to alter, there is only just a chance,
To dodge the " Jerry" rifles and the shrapnel flying
around.
I've burrowed like a bunny to a funk-hole in the ground.
The floor is just a puddle, ‘cause the roof lets in the
damp;
I wish I was in Aussie where the sleeper cutters camp.
The tea is foul and bitter, like an ancient witch's brew,
The bread is sour and scanty, and you ought to see the stew.
The "'lootenant'" that is leading is a leery kind of
coot -
We always call him "Mister" so plain Bill would never
suit,
I'd sell my chance of Heaven for five minutes with the scamp,
Where the red bull's chewing nut grass by the sleeper cutters'
camp.
If another war is starting, I'll hang out with the " jibs",
Not much in being a hero, with a bayonet 'tween your ribs.
Hard fighting for the Froggies, pushing Huns across the Rhine,
They can take Alsace and Flanders and Normandy for mine!
All I'm needin' is a pozzie where the ground is not too damp,
'Neath azure skies of Aussie, just a sleeper cutters' camp.
Here, sitting in a dug-out, a rifle on my knees,
I fancy I am back there, once again, among the trees,
With long lost friends I'm chatting, by the camp-fire's ruddy
glow,
Where we boiled the old black billy, in the days of long ago,
The signal comes to "Fall-in", I can hear the Diggers
tramp.
Farewell, perhaps forever, to the sleeper cutters' camp.
26.
Just as the Sun Went Down
Words & music by Lyn Udall (1898).
This excerpt was collected from Carrie Milliner (nee Bobbin).
In the mist of the battlefield, just at the
close of day,
Wounded and bleeding upon the field two dying soldiers lay.
One thought of mother at home alone, feeble and old and grey.
One of his sweetheart he’d left in town, happy and young
and gay.
One held a ringlet of thin, grey hair, one kissed a lock of brown.
Bidding each other their last farewell, just as the sun went down.
27.
The Riderless Horse
Words: John O'Brien, Music: Denis Kevans
He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the
gloaming,
And lime-lights are trained on the tops of the gums,
To stand by the sliprails, awaiting the homing
Of one who marched off to the beat of the drums;
So handsome he looked, in his putties and khaki,
Light-hearted he went, like a youngster, to play,
But why comes he never to speak to his "Darkie",
Around at the rails at the close of the day.
Hard by at the station, the training commences,
In circles they're schooling the hacks for the shows,
The high-mettled hunters are sent at the fences,
And satins and dapples the brushes disclose;
Sound-winded, and fit, and quite ready is Darkie,
Impatient to strip for the sprint and the flight,
But what can be keeping the rider in khaki,
And why does the silence hang heavy tonight?
Ah, surely, he'll come, when the waiting is
ended,
To fly the stiff fences, and take him in hand,
Blue-ribboned once more, and three-quarters extended,
Hard-held for the cheers, from the fence and the stand;
But there on the cross beam, the saddle hangs idle,
The cobweb around the loose stirrup is spun,
There's rust on the spur, and there's dust on the bridle,
And gathering mould are the badges he won.
We'll take the old horse, to the paddocks, tomorrow,
Where grasses are waving, breast-high, after rain,
And there, with the clean-skins, we'll turn him in sorrow,
And muster him, never, ah, never, again ;
The bushbirds will sing, when the shadows are creeping,
A sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell's,
Would it might ring where the bush boy lies sleeping,
to colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.
And why are the neighbours foregathered so gently,
Their horses a-doze , at the fence, in a row,
What are they talking of, softly, intently,
And why are the women-folk lingering so?
One hand, soft and small, that so often caressed him,
Was trembling, just now, as it fondled his head,
And what was the trickling, warm drop that distressed him,
And what were the heartbroken words that she said?
He comes, when the gullies are wrapped in the
gloaming,
And lime-lights are trained on the taps of the gums,
To stand by the sliprails, awaiting the homing,
Of one who marched off to the beat of the drums;
So handsome he looked, in his putties and khaki,
Light-hearted he went, like a youngster, to play,
But why comes he never to speak to his "Darkie",
Around at the rails at the close of the day?
Thanks
This CD is dedicated to
the memory of the late George Robert Deakin-Bell (Jason’s
Great-Grandfather) and the late Colin William Pye (Jason’s
Pop). Our interest in Australia’s experience of the First
World War that was sparked by the many stories from within our
own families. The interest has remained personal; the contribution
to this recording from our friends and family has been invaluable.
In particular, we would like to thank Bob Rummery, Denis Kevans,
Alan Musgrove, John Dengate, Maysie Tucker, Rob Willis, Carrie
Milliner and Jacko Kevans for their generous sharing of the songs
and support in us singing them.
Thanks also to Anne and Brian Newton for their enthusiastic continued
support.
Thanks also to The Australian War Memorial for their assistance
with research.
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