"There is farmers frum the Mallee, there is bushmen down frum Bourke,
There's college men wiv letters to their name;
There is grafters, an' there's blokes 'oo never done a 'ard day's work
Till they tumbled, wiv the rest, into the game—
An' they're drillin' 'ere together, men uv ev'ry creed an' kind.
It's Australia! Solid! Dinkum! that 'as left the land be'ind.
"An' if yeh want a slushy, or a station overseer.
Or a tinker, or a tailor, or a snob,
Or a 'andy bloke wiv 'orses, or a minin' ingineer.
Why, we've got the very man to do yer job.
Butcher, baker, undertaker, or a Caf' de Pary chef,
'E is waitin', keen an' ready, in the little A.I.F.
"An' they've drilled us. Strike me lucky! but they've drilled us fer a cert!
We 'ave trod around ole Egyp's burnin' sand
Till I tells meself at evenin', when I'm wringin' out me shirt.
That we're built uv wire an' green-'ide in our land.
Strike! I thort I knoo 'ard yakker, w'ich I've tackled many
ways,
But uv late I've took a tumble I bin dozin' orl me days.
