34 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 wind-swept kopjes ‘When the frost lay snowy-white. ‘Never a halt in the daytime, ‘Never a rest at night! A Poem by Banjo Paterson THE LAST PARADE
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