The Last Parade
With never a sound of trumpet,With never a flag displayed,The last of the old campaignersLined up for the last parade.
Weary they were and battered,Shoeless, and knocked about;From under their ragged forelocksTheir hungry eyes looked out.
And they watched as the old commanderRead out, to the cheering men,The Nation’s thanks and the ordersTo 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 thirstyWe limped on the blazing plain;And after a long night’s picketYou saddled us up again.
‘We froze on the wind-swept kopjesWhen the frost lay snowy-white.Never a halt in the daytime,Never a rest at night!
‘We knew when the rifles rattledFrom the hillside bare and brown,And over our weary shouldersWe 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—Carried them p’raps too late.
‘Steel! We were steel to stand it—We that have lasted through,We that are old campaignersPitiful, poor, and few.
‘Over the sea you brought us,Over the leagues of foam:Now we have served you fairlyWill you not take us home?
‘Home to the Hunter River,To the flats where the lucerne grows;Home where the MurrumbidgeeRuns white with the melted snows.
‘This is a small thing surely!Will not you give commandThat the last of the old campaignersGo back to their native land?’
. . . . .
They looked at the grim commander,But never a sign he made.‘Dismiss!’ and the old campaignersMoved off from their last parade.