| Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
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| And I lived the free life of the rover
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| From the Murray’s green basin to the dusty outback
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| Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over
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| Then in 1915, my country said, «Son
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| It’s time you stop ramblin', there’s work to be done.»
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| So 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 the ship pulled away from the quay
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| And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears
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| We sailed off for Gallipoli
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| And how well I remember that terrible day
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| How our blood stained the sand and the water;
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| And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
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| We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
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| Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
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| He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
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| And in five minutes flat, he’d blown us all to hell
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| Nearly blew us right back to Australia
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| But the band played «Waltzing Matilda,»
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| When we stopped to bury our slain
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| Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs
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| Then we started all over again
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| And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
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| In that mad world of blood, death and fire
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| And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
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| Though 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 woke up in me hospital bed
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| And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
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| Never knew there was worse things than dying
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| For I’ll go no more «Waltzing Matilda,»
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| All around the green bush far and free --
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| To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs
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| No more «Waltzing Matilda» for me
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| So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed
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| And they shipped us back home to Australia
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| The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane
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| Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
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| And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay
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| I looked at the place where me legs used to be
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| And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me
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| To grieve, to mourn and to pity
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| But 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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| Then they turned all their faces away
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| And so now every April, I sit on my porch
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| And I watch the parade pass before me
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| And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
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| Reviving old dreams of past glory
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| And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore
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| They’re tired old heroes from a forgotten war
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| And the young people ask «What are they marching for?»
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| And I ask meself the same question
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| But the band plays «Waltzing Matilda,»
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| And the old men still answer the call
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| But as year follows year, more old men disappear
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| Someday, no one will march there at all
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| Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda
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| Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
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| And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong
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| Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me? |