Poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

The Last Parade

With never a sound of trumpet, 
With never a flag displayed, 
The last of the old campaigners 
Lined up for the last parade. 

Weary they were and battered, 
Shoeless, and knocked about; 
From under their ragged forelocks 
Their hungry eyes looked out. 

And they watched as the old commander 
Read out to the cheering men 
The Nation’s thanks, and the orders 
To carry them home again. 

And the last of the old campaigners, 
Sinewy, lean, and spare -- 
He spoke for his hungry comrades: 
”Have we not done our share? 

”Starving and tired and thirsty 
We limped on the blazing plain; 
And after a long night’s picket 
You saddled us up again. 

”We froze on the windswept kopjes 
When the frost lay snowy-white, 
Never a halt in the daytime, 
Never a rest at night! 

”We knew when the rifles rattled 
From the hillside bare and brown, 
And over our weary shoulders 
We felt warm blood run down, 

”As we turned for the stretching gallop, 
Crushed to the earth with weight; 
But we carried our riders through it -- 
Sometimes, perhaps, too late. 

”Steel! We were steel to stand it -- 
We that have lasted through, 
We that are old campaigners 
Pitiful, poor, and few. 

”Over the sea you brought us, 
Over the leagues of foam: 
Now we have served you fairly 
Will you not take us home? 

”Home to the Hunter River, 
To the flats where the lucerne grows; 
Home where the Murrumbidgee 
Runs white with the melted snows. 

”This is a small thing, surely! 
Will not you give command 
That the last of the old campaigners 
Go back to their native land?” 

They looked at the grim commander, 
But never a sign he made. 
”Dismiss!” and the old campaigners 
Moved off from their last parade.

1. There’s Another Blessed Horse Fell Down
2. The Wargeilah Handicap
3. The Maori’s Wool
4. “Shouting” for a Camel
5. The Man Who Was Away

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