With never a sound of trumpet,
With never a flag displayed,
The last of the old
Lined up for the last parade.
Weary they were and battered,
Shoeless, and knocked about;
From under their ragged
Their hungry eyes looked out.
And they watched as the old
Read out to the cheering
The Nation's thanks, and the
To carry them home again.
And the last of the old campaigners,
Sinewy, lean, and spare —He spoke for his hungry comrades:"Have we not done our share?"Starving and tired and
We limped on the blazing plain;
And after a long night's
You saddled us up again."We froze on the windswept
When the frost lay snowy-white,
Never a halt in the daytime,
Never a rest at night!"We knew when the rifles
From the hillside bare and brown,
And over our weary
We felt warm blood run down,"As we turned for the stretching gallop,
Crushed to the earth with weight;
But we carried our riders through it —Sometimes, perhaps, too late."Steel!
We were steel to stand it —We that have lasted through,
We that are old
Pitiful, poor, and few."Over the sea you brought us,
Over the leagues of foam:
Now we have served you
Will you not take us home?"Home to the Hunter River,
To the flats where the lucerne grows;
Home where the
Runs white with the melted snows."This is a small thing, surely!
Will not you give
That the last of the old
Go back to their native land?"They looked at the grim commander,
But never a sign he made."Dismiss!" and the old
Moved off from their last parade.
