| On the battlefields across the sea
|
| One wet and dismal morn
|
| A heritage was carved in blood
|
| And the fighting man was born
|
| On the rugged slopes of Gallipoli
|
| Where the digger earned his name
|
| And the admiration of the Turk:
|
| Australia is his name.
|
| With a careless grin across his lips,
|
| And a rifle in his hand,
|
| He’s fought his way throughout the years
|
| In jungle or in sand;
|
| And proudly wearing on his head
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| The hat, the award of fame
|
| In the blooded test of courage raw:
|
| Australia is his name.
|
| He’s a fighting man of world renown
|
| And a cobber of the best
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| Just like his Dad did once before
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| He’s passed in every test.
|
| Now once again the drums of war
|
| Have found him just the same
|
| With the side turned up on his old hat:
|
| Australia is his name.
|
| There’s a mother who sits at home and waits
|
| In a thousand different towns
|
| But down inside she’s full of pride:
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| Her boy won’t let her down.
|
| For he was born a digger breed
|
| And he’ll carry on the name
|
| In the blooded test of carry-draw:
|
| Australia is his name.
|
| On the battlefields across the sea
|
| One wet and dismal morn
|
| A heritage was carved in blood
|
| And the fighting man was born
|
| On the rugged slopes of Gallipoli
|
| Where the digger earned his name
|
| And the admiration of the Turk:
|
| Australia is his name.
|
| And the admiration of the Turk;
|
| Australia is his name. |