Anzac Day
Patriotic men and women from sixty down to sixteen
Rode proudly on their horses in the famed Anzac green
Followed by the women of the Red Cross in their renowned white and red
On this day every April they honour the war dead.
Up to the war memorial where a large crowd stand around
And at the front of the congregation old 'Diggers' to be found
Old veterans of World war 2 they show their years in gray
Their war medals pinned to their lapels their bravery on display.
A lone bugler played the last post to honour the war dead
And an old man who was standing near i saw him bow his head
And tears were trickling down his face his thoughts were far away
Some noble men who were his friends in foreign Country lay.
We are gathered here this morning the ageing speaker said
To commemorate true heroes our great and brave war dead
They made the ultimate sacrifice and at a young age they did die
And we have them in part to thank for the freedom we enjoy
For our soldiers who died in foreign wars for their souls let us pray
It's only to remember them that we have Anzac day
Their bones may lay in foreign fields but in history they survive
And the spirit of the Anzac is still very much alive.
He thanked the old war veterans who marched in the parade
How can we thank you enough for the sacrifice you've made
You risked your lives in cause of peace 'we salute you today'
You noble men who won the war in Country far away.
He thanked the red cross women the finest in the Land
And the bugler who played 'The Last Post' and the six piece marching band
And the horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And he asked the band to finish up by playing 'God save the Queen'.
And the band played 'God save the Queen' but not 'Advance Australia Fair'
And i who doesn't believe in war could only feel aware
That in Britain they don't play the Australian anthem when they honour their war dead
Was it for Britain or Australia that young Aussie blood was shed? .
The horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And the bugler played the last post and the band played 'God Save The Queen'.
And a war veteran spoke of Aussie war dead their bones in Europe lay
At least they are remembered still on every Anzac Day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Related quotes
At The Grave Of The Unknown Soldier
He was a brave soldier he died young and brave
And for more than six decades he lay in his grave
And still at the dawning of each war memorial day
At his grave site a young bugler the last post does play.
Known as the Unknown Soldier one without a name
Still he had a mum and a dad just the same
And when he did not return home when the fighting was done
They grieved at their loss and they wept for their son.
The war to end all wars of all wars 'tis said
But more wars are fought and we have more war dead
And at the grave of the unknown soldier the last post is played
And to honour the war dead another parade.
Old war men do tell us young soldiers fight and die
For freedom and liberty that is a lie
They went to war when young they are now old and gray
Some grow old not wiser some are known to say.
That they were fighting for freedom and justice they believed to be true
And they were quite gallant to give them their due
But many deprived of their human rights in the World of today
And that does seem a very sad thing for to say.
With heads bowed old men showing their years in gray
At the grave of the Unknown Soldier at the dawn of the day
In silence do listen as a young bugler the last post does play
For one who fought and died in a war far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In War Winners Are Losers
The winners write the war history or so it has been said
And though they may have their celebrations they cannot bring back the dead
For the dead are gone forever in eternal rest they lay
And in war winners are losers despite what some do think or say,
In war the one winner is hatred and old hatreds linger on for years
And the mothers for their dead soldiers are left to shed their tears
The last post may be played for them on war memorial day
But they will not hear the bugler all is so quiet where they lay,
They went to the reaper early and they faced death without fear
And of stories of their bravery we do so often hear
But those who sent them off to war were those who stood to gain
And though the young heroes died bravely their premature deaths were in vain
For war it is still being waged and the huge sacrifice they made
Only rally the troops for war in another war parade.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Don't Feel Sorry Anzac Day Is Over
I don't feel sorry Anzac day is over enough of talk of war for one more year
I did not attend the ceremony at the war memorial their tired old speeches I did not wish to hear
I do not wish to belittle their glory but their sameness I find boring just the same
They pass their torch to the young generation who to the war drums march on towards their fame.
Why don't they leave the young to make up their own minds instead of brainwashing them in such a way
To poor refugees who flee for their lives from the war zones more respect we all ought to pay
I am frowned upon as not a decent person as I do not attend the ceremonies on Anzac Day
But than to grow old as a false patriot I'd prefer for to grow old and gray.
The big headline news of the morning was as you guessed it was yesterday's big Anzac Day parade
I can understand of war veterans of why so much of a big fuss of them is made
Such occasions are used by the Politicians as to power they so desperately try to cling
It means more votes for incumbent Parliamentarians when the praises of old war veterans they sing.
I feel very happy Anzac Day is over by such occasions I for one don't feel inspired
Too much of anything can become boring and of war and of war heroes I've grown tired
Why should I wish for to leave my bed at daybreak for to go and watch a silly war parade
I'm tired of hearing of war and of war heroes and far too many last posts have been played.
poem by Francis Duggan
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That Most Humans Crave For Glory
That most humans crave for glory is surely not a lie
And though you well may love your Country for your Country why should you die
Since dead heroes like dead cowards cannot help their Country in any way
Whilst alive you can help your Country even though you look old and gray
The dead hero cannot hear the bugler when the last post it is played
Though some may say his ghost is present at every war parade
The deserter is dishonoured from the fight he ran away
But to his Country he's of some use he's alive and well today
The dead hero he is honoured though to him that of no use
For to justify their recent war the war leaders use the war dead as an excuse
For another bloody battle a war they themselves will not fight in
Though in every war that ever was humanity did not win
You cannot serve your Country by dying for it so live for as long as you can
And die hopefully a painless death as a very old man.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Along The War Avenue Of honour
Along the war Avenue of Honour a plaque to a dead soldier nailed to every tree
Brave young men who died in battle their reward for their bravery
They died in the war said to end all wars in the killing fields of World war one
But many wars since and far too many bloody battles and peace in the World not yet won.
Wars started by silly ageing men who send the young for them to die
Ageing men who themselves will die of old age and their twilight years they will enjoy,
ageing males heroes of their people we honour cowards as heroes one might say
The young men will go to war for them and the young men with their young lives pay.
The war supposed to end all wars long over almost nine decades since have gone by
But many wars have been fought since then and war pilots dropp their big bombs from the night sky
But suppose that's what will always happen when we give all of our power away
To silly and ageing male war men who with hair dyes cover their gray.
Along the war avenue of honour long dead soldiers names on every tree
Young noble men who died in battle far from homeland and family
In what was to be the war to end all wars yet we don't have much wisdom to show
For the loss of so many fine young men well over eight decades ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Just False Patriotism
'Tis true to the dead that respect we should show
But they still honour men who died ninety years ago
For a dubious cause in Lands far away
But the war that was supposed to end all wars is re-lived today.
In that war it is said a million people died
And in such needless slaughter why do we take pride
At the war memorial the last post is played
And the long war dead are honoured with one more parade.
Those who march for peace it does seem to me
Do more for the betterment of humanity
Than those who go to war memorials to honour the long dead
Far too much about war has been written and said.
Just false patriotism to me this does seem
A boost to big egos and to self esteem
The mistakes of war are repeated today
And people are dying in war zones far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Twenty-Fifth Of April
THIS day is Anzac Day!
Made sacred by the memory
Of those who fought and died, and fought and live,
And gave the best that men may give
For love of Land. It dawns once more,
And, though on alien sea and shore
The guns are silent all,
Yet we with pride recall
The deeds which gave it immortality.
Great deeds are deathless things!
The doer dies, but not the deed,
And, when upon that fateful April day
Our Anzacs, throwing all but love away,
Gave life and limb for Honour's sake,
With Freedom tremblingly at stake,
They lit a beacon-light
Imperishable, bright,
That evermore the Nation's soul shall heed.
Not Peace, not Peace alone
Can make a nation great and good
And bring it that full stature, strength, and grace
That fit it for an age-enduring place
In men's regard. Through storm and strife
It runs to sweet and noble life;
For through its veins there runs
The valour of great sons
Who died to give it stately nationhood.
This day is Anzac Day!
Made sacred by the thrilling thought
Of those who proved their souls, it reappears;
And thus 'twill dawn, and dawn through future years
Till Time our petty deeds efface,
And others, dwelling in our place,
Tell o'er, with tongue and pen,
The glorious tale again
Of how on beach and crag the Anzacs fought.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Band Played Waltzing Matilda
When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my Matilda all over
Then in nineteen fifteen my country said Son
It's time to stop rambling 'cause there's work to be
done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we sailed away from the quay
And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the
cheers
We sailed off to Gallipoli
How well I remember that terrible day
And how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well
He
shells
And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell
Nearly blew us right back to Australia
But the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we stopped to bury our slain
And we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then
Now those
In
And for
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit
And when I woke up in my hospital bed
And saw what it had done,
dead
Never knew there were worse things than dying
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me
So they collected the cripples, the wounded
maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where
And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As they carried us down the gangway
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared
And now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving
The forgotten heroes
And the young people ask
marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men
But year after year their numbers get fewer
Some day no one will march there at all
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda
When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the murrays green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my matilda all over
Then in nineteen fifteen my country said son
Its time to stop rambling cause theres work to be
Done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war
And the band played waltzing matilda
As we sailed away from the quay
And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the
Cheers
We sailed off to gallipoli
How well I remember that terrible day
And how in that hell that they called suvla bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny turk he was ready, he primed himself well
He
Shells
And in five minutes flat hed blown us all to hell
Nearly blew us right back to australia
But the band played waltzing matilda
As we stopped to bury our slain
And we buried ours and the turks buried theirs
Then
Now those
In
And for
Then a big turkish shell knocked me arse over tit
And when I woke up in my hospital bed
And saw what it had done,
Dead
Never knew there were worse things than dying
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs
No more waltzing matilda for me
So they collected the cripples, the wounded
Maimed
And they shipped us back home to australia
Those proud wounded heroes of suvla
And as our ship pulled into circular quay
I looked at the place where
And thank christ there was nobody waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity
And the band played waltzing matilda
As they carried us down the gangway
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared
And now every april I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving
The forgotten heroes
And the young people ask
Marching for?
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays waltzing matilda
And the old men
But year after year their numbers get fewer
Some day no one will march there at all
Waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda
Wholl
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The National Game Of Australia
The National game of Australia is Australian Rules Football
And the Aussies who love their game say 'tis the greatest game of all
Soccer, Rugby Union and Rugby League and Cricket have their roots elsewhere
But no truer Aussie sportsman than an Aussie Rules footy player,
A game born on Australian soil it surely is Australia's own
And the legend of great footy players in their deaths has even grown
In September at the famed M C G in Melbourne on A F L Grand Final Day
Close to one hundred thousand people flock to watch Australia's best teams play
Though many like both codes of rugby and cricket and soccer a game that is played Worldwide
Australia's National game is Aussie Rules to many that's a source of pride
The National Game of Australia and it's great claim to fame
Is that it was born and bred in Australia and is the only true Australian Game
And it surely is a true Aussie as Aussie as can be
And though some others may like introduced games far better with what I say many would agree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Id Do It Again
A one man band on a one night stand
As a one man band should be
The cried for more, he replied why sure
And he played one just for free
The sounds he laid down. the songs he played
Made the ladies all come to call
He was born in the back of a seminole bus
On the road to niagra falls
Id do it again, Id do it again
Id do it again
The one man band philosophical man
Didnt lie when he said to us
I seen the high rollers come and go
Its the holy rollers I trust
The man said then he was sixteen when
He retired from the county school
A wee bit thin with a will to begin
He was known to be know mans fool
Id do it again, Id do it again
Id do it again
The one man band was a mighty good man
Cause he played til the break of dawn
He ups and downs about four more rounds
And he stayed til the crowd went home
It seemed to me like he never could be
Like anything Id ever seen before
When he stepped from the stage with his ax in his hand
And he run through the backstage door
Id do it again, Id do it again
Id do it again
A one man band on a one night stand
As a one man band should be
They cried for more, he replied why sure
And he played one just for free
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Last Post.
The last post sounds and echoes round.
The neat and well kept burial ground.
Head stones in rows beneath the sky
to mark where our dead heroes lie.
Standing as if still on parade.
Each headstone looking newly made.
It is one way we show respect.
No more no less than I expect
Head stones don’t only signify
that battle weary soldiers die
They also serve who wait for men
who will not see their home again.
The last post makes us realise
That war destroys their families.
Each time I hear the last post sound
I’m filled with sadness so profound.
Tears spring unbidden from my eyes,
they always take me by surprise.
I’m not ashamed to let them flow
Because I’m old enough to know.
That real men aren’t afraid to cry
Despite the ancient common lie.
That men don’t let emotions show
and should not let their tear drops flow.
When I hear the last post sound
I can recall the battle ground.
Where so many comrades still lie
in foreign fields beneath the sky.
The last post serves to honour all
brave soldiers who sadly fall.
Not only friends but enemies.
Death selects quite randomly.
Young widows weep and mothers cry.
They have the right and so do I.
Tuesday,31 August 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Anzac
A dark brooding shadow
Soldier standing alone
His head bowed in agony
Soldier standing forlorn
His creaking ship landed
Only one month ago
Now all his mates dead
Are buried on the knoll
His khaki clothes flutter
Flutter in a sea breeze
By day they bake
By night they freeze
His slouched leather hat
rests on his rifle
A Symbol of courage
One mustn't trifle
Illusion of war's glory
Has long passed him by
Now all that remains
Is death, dirt, and fly
Anzac, man of honour
He puts a letter away
Last words of the dead
Will shine again one day
He whispers a prayer
To return to his land
Far away, so far away
From this bloody sand
God fearing man
Now he asks why
Why did his friends
All have to die?
that was a question
He'd never ever fill
As he slowly turned
And went down the hill
Farmers and bushmen
Now as soldiers, roar
Stories become legends
ANZAC, man of war
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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When Scarborough Had Land
I remember Scarborough proud Protestant and blue,
With portraits of a Queen near every pew.
No Sunday shops, no music hops, no liquor on display,
Where the Lodges and the Legions marched each Victoria Day.
Where ensigns flew, Union Jacks too, unique uniforms on parade.
A raucous rush of pompous pride by pals from every trade,
As they beat the drum down Danforth Road on the twenty fourth of May,
Out to the country and back by Byng, again on Dominion Day.
Those were loyal times before the war for king and queen and all,
For more than a few, this love did cause, their ultimate downfall.
It did at Dieppe and D-day too like their seniors at the Somme,
They died for king and country; they did it for a song.
And soon they were forgotten, those who fought for king and crown,
Though those lucky to return had saved the country and the town.
They would walk again forever with their flags flying high,
Marching medals of the heroes that no one could deny.
Except the town of Scarborough was down on the drawing board,
And those fields and sheep and meadows didn't fit the grand accord.
No newcomers paid attention as the veterans vied for space,
And their parades of marching medals only had an old-time grace.
And Scarborough changed by day and night from a township to a city,
Old soldiers faded fast and few and no one had much pity.
And the immigrants came in wave after wave from places far and wide,
As the soldiers went to grave after grave with their flags and faded pride.
But still a few survive today and I'm sure they are not pleased.
'bout the changes to the town and how Scarborough had been squeezed,
From a township to a city where no one cared for esprit de corps,
So they amalgamated with Toronto and Scarborough was no more.
And culture clash and bureaucrat and ever changing rules,
Of mandarin and moguls and Tamils dressed in jewels,
While traffic roared and the buildings soared sometimes to sixty stories,
Where women wrapped in saris sashayed in all their glories.
They had lost the town without a fight, those men from long ago.
And everything was centralized; they said to save some dough,
But the authorities had lied again; it was all politically correct,
And no one marched, no flags did fly and no one did protest.
There are sometimes you still can hear it, the distant drone of pipes,
And men in kilts still carry on, just watched by boys on bikes.
They're just a faint reminder now of the many marching bands,
When those with flags and medals marched and Scarborough had some land.
DEC 1ST 2010
poem by James Bredin
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Tuba
I was once in a band
in school long ago
when the Poison was big
as their hair
When I was a lad
I played a Golden Tuba
and marched all
over the land
We played in parks
for elderly folks
we played in the gym
for our parents
but mine weren't there
We marched in parades
and my Tuba shined
because I polished it
every day and night
I was so proud of that
Tuba and the sound it
produced that I played
it at home in my room
marching in place
like the whole band
was there
and such pride, such pride
until Dad broke it.
poem by John W. McEwers
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Killers All?
Now bugle boy what do you blow
Your trumpet pressed to your dead lips
I sound recall to let them know
this is the end of their hardships
They came as boys but died like men
From factories farms and mean back streets
They will not see their homes again
The brave young men whom death defeats.
They answered to their country’s call
And donned their Khaki battle dress
And shipped to France where they would fall
by thousands in the wilderness.
Created by the shot and shell
turning the battlefield to mud.
Which drowned young soldiers where they fell
and drenched the earth with their hearts blood.
Now poppies blow in Flanders fields’
The soil enriched by dead men bones
which has increased the harvest yields.
The poppies act as their headstones.
So many died and were not found
their fate unknown, No man could say
Their bodies melded with the ground
but we remember still to day.
The slaughter and the sacrifice
The useless waste of human lives.
They were prepared to pay the price.
Though a small band of them survives.
Each passing year their numbers fall
Old age more sure than shot and shell.
Soon there will be none at all
who endured that living hell.
The war to end all wars they said
You will be home by Christmas tide
Instead of that most would be dead.
Involuntary suicide.
We honour those who bravely died
a generation of young men.
The best of breed on either side.
But still we go to war again.
The world has never been at peace
since the war to end all wars.
I don’t believe that wars will cease
as long as there are warriors.
Who think they can enforce their will
on other men by force of arms.
It seems that killing is a skill
Which can seduce men with its charms.
16-May-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I Respect Them
I respect them though the last post for them will not be played
And never in their honour will there be a parade
And yet their anthem for peace to my ears sounds so sweet
Those peace loving peace marchers who walk along the street.
They march on in their thousands up to the City Square
Their dream is for a peaceful World a common goal they share
And yet in their honour never a peace memorial day
The people who glorify war always seem to have their way.
Not seen as heroines or heroes medals they don't have to show
And few of their life stories would wish to read or know
They only wish to make peace with those known as the foe
And from their efforts only the flower of peace can grow.
Unsung heroes and heroines is how they seem to me
They only march for a better life and a World of war that's free
They only wish to send some positive energy in the balmy evening air
To the negative and lesser enlightened in the bigger World out there.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Feeling the draught
Tom tiddle om, tiddle om tom tom.
The drummers played as they marched along,
close behind were the infantry.
they were smart as smart could be.
The cavalry were there of course,
each man riding on his horse.
Oh what a wonderful sight to see
the soldiers in their finery
.
At the head was Major drum
who had a very large tum tum.
He was dressed in red and gray,
But his big tum tum got in the way.
As he marched so very proudly.
Someone in the crowd said loudly.
He wont cut such a dashing figure,
If his tum tum gets any bigger.
The people yelled, the people cheered.,
the king was laughing in his beard.
The queen. she nearly had a fit.
when the Major’s trousers split.
,
First they sniggered then they laughed.
when the Major felt the draught.
No one there had ever seen
a major wearing shorts of emerald green.
April 2003
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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No Foe Shall Gather Our Harvest
Sons of the mountains of Scotland,
Welshmen of coomb and defile,
Breed of the moors of England,
Children of Erin's green isle,
We stand four square to the tempest,
Whatever the battering hail-
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
Our women shall walk in honour,
Our children shall know no chain,
This land, that is ours forever,
The invader shall strike at in vain.
Anzac!...Tobruk!...and Kokoda!...
Could ever the old blood fail?
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
So hail-fellow-met we muster,
And hail-fellow-met fall in,
Wherever the guns may thunder,
Or the rocketing air-mail spin!
Born of the soil and the whirlwind,
Though death itself be the gale-
No foe shall gather our harvest
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
We are the sons of Australia,
of the men who fashioned the land;
We are the sons of the women
Who walked with them hand in hand;
And we swear by the dead who bore us,
By the heroes who blazed the trail,
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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Anzac Square: What The Digger Said
Said the Digger: 'Soon forgot! Soon forgot, the deeds of war.
Better so, may be. . . Why not?
Beauty fades and laurels rot;
Last year's roses are no more.
Fame?' the one-armed Digger said,
'What of glory when you're dead?'
'Stone and brass,' the Digger said. 'Stone and brass: tho' these endure,
Marble flaunting o'er my head
Would be dead, as I'd be dead.
How may any man be sure
That the hearts of men shall hold
Memories of tales once told?
This alone I surely know: earth I am, and earth shall be,
Only Mother Earth can show,
When I go where all men go,
Aught of this that had been me.
Mother Earth, once stained so red,
She must know,' the Digger said.
'Would you raise, in braggart heaps, stone, cold stone, to mark the fame
Of full many a man who sleeps
Where the earth of Anzac keeps
Guard o'er legions lacking name
Plinth and pillar reared to show
Pomp and pride they cannot know?
'They ask no portentous pile, boasting to a heedless sky,
Stirring men a little while,
Subject, then, for sigh or smile,
Not for this do soldiers die,
With our passing let Pride be,
All we ask is Memory:
'Memory of such fair worth as a fighting man may claim,
And a plot of hallowed earth
In the city of our birth:
Earth that bears a hallowed name.
Let it be envisioned there:
Anzac worth in Anzac Square.
'Memory,' the Digger said. 'If so be the city judge
Soldiers worthy, who have bled.
Worthy of her love, the dead,
Shall the city, then, begrudge
One wide acre of her soil
For who saved the whole from spoil?
'Here, it may be, by God's grace, our son's sons may sit at last,
In the People's market place,
Knowing truly, as they trace
Memory of me long past,
'Tis enshrined forever there:
Anzac worth in Anzac Square.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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