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Fall In My Men Fall In

The short hour's halt is ended,

The red gone from the west,

The broken wheel is mended,

And the dead men laid to rest.

Three days have we

The brave old Curse-and-Grin –Outnumbered and defeated –Fall in, my men, fall in.

Poor weary, hungry sinners,

Past caring and past fear,

The camp-fires of the

Are gleaming in the rear.

Each day their front advances,

Each day the same old din,

But freedom holds the chances –Fall in, my men, fall in.

Despair's cold fingers

The sky is black ahead,

We leave in barns and

Our wounded and our dead.

Through cold and rain and

And mire that clogs like sin,

In failure in its starkness –Fall in, my men, fall in.

We go and know not whither,

Nor see the tracks we go –A horseman gaunt shall tell us,

A rain-veiled light shall show.

By wood and swamp and mountain,

The long dark hours begin –Before our fresh wounds stiffen –Fall in, my men, fall in.

With old wounds dully aching –Fall in, my men, fall in –See yonder starlight

Through rifts where storm clouds thin!

See yonder clear sky

The distant range upon?

I'll plan while we are marching –Move on, my men - march on!

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Henry Lawson

Henry Archibald Hertzberg Lawson (17 June 1867 – 2 September 1922)[1] was an Australian writer and bush poet. Along with his contemporary Banjo …

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