Poems (Storrie)/Song for the Departure of the Troops

by Agnes Louisa Storrie

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.