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Slim Dusty
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And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda - 1992 Digital Remaster
When I was a young man an' carried a pack
I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green banks to the dusty outback.
I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, the country said, 'Son,
No time for roamin', there's work to be done.'
And they gave me a tin hat, they gave me a gun,
And they sent me away to the war.
And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda,'
As our ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off to Gallipoli.
How well I remember that terrible day,
When our blood stained the sand and the water;
And how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
Showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell
And in ten seconds flat, he'd blown us to hell,
Nea'ly blew us right back to Australia.
And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda,'
As we stopped to bury the slain,
We buried our men, the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.
They collected the crippled, the wounded, and maimed,
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And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, and insane,
All the brave wounded heroes of Suvla.
And when our ship pulled into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where my legs used to be,
I thanked Christ there was nobody wainting for me,
To grieve and to mourn and to pity.
And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda,'
As they carried us down the gangway,
And nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
And then they turned their faces away.
And now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me,
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reliving old dreams of past glory,
But the old men march slowly, their bones stiff and sore,
Tired old men from a tired old war;
And the young people ask, 'What are they marching for?'
I ask meself the same question.
But the band plays 'Waltzing Matilda,'
And the old men they answer the call,
But year after year, those old men disappear
And soon, no one will march there at all.
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