| When I was a young man I carried a pack
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| And I lived the free life of a rover
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| From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback
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| I waltzed my Matilda all over
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| Then in nineteen fifteen the country said Son
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| There’s no time for roving, there’s work to be done
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| And they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
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| And they marched me away to the war
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| And the band played Waltzing Matilda
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| As our ships pulled away from the quay
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| Amidst all the cheers, the flag waving and tears
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| We sailed off for Gallipoli
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| How well I remember that terrible day
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| How our blood stained the sand and the water
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| How in that hell that they called Suvla Bay
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| We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
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| Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well
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| He showered us with bullets and he rained us with shells
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| And in ten minutes flat, well he’d blown us all to hell
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| Nearly blew us back home to Australia
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| And the band played Waltzing Matilda
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| As we stopped to bury the slain
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| We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
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| Then we started all over again
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| Well those that were left, we tried to survive
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| In a mad world of blood, death and fire
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| For ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
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| But around me the corpses piled higher
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| Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head
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| And when I awoke up in my hospital bed
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| And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
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| Never knew there were worse things than dying
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| For no more I’ll go waltzing Matilda
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| All around the green bush far and free
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| To hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs
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| No more waltzing Matilda for me
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| They collected the crippled, the wounded and maimed
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| And they shipped us on home to Australia
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| The armless, the legless, the blind and insane
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| All the brave wounded heroes of Suvla
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| And when our ship pulled into Circular Quay
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| And I looked at the place where my legs used to be
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| And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me
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| To grieve and to mourn and to pity
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| And the band played Waltzing Matilda
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| As they carried us down the gangway
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| But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared
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| And then turned their faces away
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| And now every April I sit on my porch
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| And I watch the parade pass before me
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| I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
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| Reliving old dreams and past glories
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| But the old men march slowly, their bones stiff and sore
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| Tired old men from a forgotten war
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| And the young people ask me, «What are they marching for?»
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| And I ask myself the same question
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| And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
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| And the old men still answer the call
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| But year after year those old men disappear
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| Some day no one will march there at all
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| And the band played Waltzing Matilda
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| And the old men still answer the call
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| But year after year those old men disappear |