Poems (Storrie)/Song for the Departure of the Troops
Song for the Departure of the Troops.
1901.
March, march, march, to the call of bugle and fife, Kiss, kiss, kiss, your sweetheart or your wife, Look, look, look at your friends as you pass them by. And lift your face To the matchless grace Of your own Australian sky. For your hands are at the plough, my lads, And its quickstep forward now, my lads, Let him who'd wear The laurel care That it shall fit his brow, my lads.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, our hearts keep time to your feet, Quick, quick, quick, through the dear old narrow street, Long, long, long we shall wait with ears astrain For the music bred Of this measured tread, Ah! shall we whit in vain? For our pride is all aflame, my lads, We trust you with our name, my lads, And if our cheers Are mixed with tears Their meaning's just I lie same, my lads.
Go, go, go, we have felt for ill or good, Sharp, sharp, sharp, the pangs of nationhood. You, you, you, who spring so gallantly From hut and hall At England's call, You shall our first fruits be. And this day shall leave a trace, my lads, That time shall not efface, my lads, Bethink you then To live like men, Or die as fits your race, my lads.