Boys of the 2/15 Bn.         The last time up the Line.

 

The Aussie troops move up the line,

The Twentieth Brigade –

Overhead bright moonbeams shine

On the dusty Cavalcade.

 

Lorries bump and bounce and lurch

Gears click smooth and neat,

Up on top we hold our perch;

A dinkum circus feat.

 

The boys tonight are thinking deep,

Their promised furlough near;

And wonder if their luck will keep,

To let them sail from here.

 

The Aussie’s known by lots of names,

The carefree reckless – bold,

No argument in this he claims;

Life is so sweet to hold.

 

Just let us out, is all we ask,

Take us to Palestine ,

Since coming here we’ve done our task,

Both in and out the line.

 

Lived on bread and bully-beef

Rice, jam and margarine,

For six long months we’ve brushed our teeth

And scraped our bodies clean

 

Suffered fleas in douvers dark,

The dirt and heat and fleas.

Saw good mates carried stiff and stark,

A white cross their only prize.

 

Tiptoed out in No Man’s Land

Three thousand yards and more,

These night patrols we understand

The Australian’s noted for.

 

Dug in rock and limestone too,

And filled sandbags galore,

Did “Listening Post” out in the dew,

And heard the Spando roar.

   

We played Jackpot for weeks on end,

To while the hour away.

The Poles and Tommies call us Friend,

With us they fight and play.

 

But now we’d like a spot of leave,

To see the sights below;

The girls in Egypt I believe,

Are very nice to know.

 

Our pay-books show a balance grand,

Oh! Won’t we cut a dash –

When these lads hit the Promised Land,

They shan’t be short of cash.

 

Bring in those Border Legion boys,

And let them not be long;

Then take us back from all this noise

To the women, wine and song.

 

But when they fall-in on parade,

Somewhere in Palestine ;

There will be some headaches I’m afraid,

As gear and boot they shine.

 

And when they get the old command

“Don Company, ‘ten shun!”

As the CO has inspection grand,

They’ll wish he were a Hun.

 

How will they take to sloping arms;

The old squad drill once more,

Marching ‘round the ploughed-up farms,

While Sergeants bark and roar.

 

But I am sure they will not mind,

For the war still rolls along,

And this battalion you will find

Will “take it” with a song.

 

So when they meet in cafes bright,

In a town, say, Tel Aviv;

Of the hard times they will all make light.

And say it’s grand to live.  

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