Now when I was a young man I carried my pack,
I lived the free life of the rover,
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915 when my country said,
"Son, there's no time for roving, there's work to be done",
They gave me a tin hat and gave me a gun,
And they sent me away to the war.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amid all the tears, the flag waving and cheers,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

How well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water,
And how in that hell they call Suvla Bay,
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter,
Johnny Turk, he was ready, he primed himself well,
He showered us with bullets and rained us with shell,
In five minutes flat, we were all blown to hell,
He nearly blew us back home to Australia.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
When we stopped to bury our slain,
We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs,
And it started all over again.

And those who were living just tried to survive,
In that mad world of blood, death and fire,
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive,
Around me the corpse piled higher,
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I awoke in me hospital bed,
And saw what it had done, I wished I were dead,
I never knew there were worse things than dying.

For no more I'll go Waltzing Matilda,
All around the green bush far and near,
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more waltzing Matilda for me.

They collected the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
They shipped us back home to Australia,
The armless, the legless, the blind and insane,
All the proud wounded heroes of Suvla,
And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thank Christ there was no one there waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn or to pity.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared,
Then turned all their faces away.

As so now every April I sit on me porch,
I watch the parade pass before me,
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Renewing old dreams of past glories,
But the old men march slowly, their bones stiff and sore,
The weary old heroes of a forgotten war,
The young people ask "What they're marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda,
And the old men still answer the call,
But year after year, more old men disappear,
Someday no one will march there at all.