From: martin@lyra.cis.umassd.edu (Gary Martin)
Newsgroups: rec.music.folk
Subject: Re: And the Band played Waltzing Mathilda
Date: 17 Dec 92 18:39:08 GMT
Followup-To: some lyric request about a line
Organization: University of Massachusetts Dartmouth

In article <11347@baird.cs.strath.ac.uk> jbreslin@cs.strath.ac.uk (John A Breslin IE90) writes:

		And The Band Played 'Waltzing Mathilda'

I'm hearing (in my perhaps faulty memory) some different words,
so for anyone who cares, here are the differences (my version
marked with *, and typos silently corrected):

   When I was a young man I carried my pack
   And I lived the free life of a rover
   From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback
   I waltzed my Mathilda all over
   Then in nineteen-fifteen my country said "Son
   It's time to stop rambling 'cos there's work to be done"
             ^^^^^^^           ^^^
*  It's time you stopped rambling, there's work to be done"
   So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me gun
   And they sent me away to the war
            ^^^^^^^
*  And they marched us away to the war
   And the band played "Waltzing Mathilda"
   As we sailed away from the quay
      ^^^^^^^^^
*  As the ship pulled away from the quay
   And amidst all the tears flagwaving and cheers
   We sailed off to Gallipoli

   How well I remember that terrible day
   How the blood stained the sand and the water
       ^^^
*      our
   And how in that hell that we called Souvla Bay
                             ^^^^^^^^^
*                            they call
   We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
   Johnny Turk he was ready he primed himself well
   He chased us with bullets and he rained us with shell
      ^^^^^^                        ^^^^^^
*     showered                      rang(?)
   And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell
   Nearly blew us right back to Australia
   And the band played "Waltzing Mathilda"
   As we stopped to bury our slain
   We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
   Then it started all over again
        ^^
*       we
   Now those that were living well we tried to survive
   In a mad world of blood death and fire
      ^
*    that
   And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
   While around me the corpses piled higher
   Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit
                                                 ^^^
*                                                head
   And when I awoke in my hospital bed
   And saw what it had done Christ I wished I was dead
   Never knew there were worse things than dying
   For no more I'll go waltzing Mathilda
   To the green bushes so far and near
   For to hump tents and pegs a man needs two legs
                                          ^^^
*                                         both
   No more waltzing Mathilda for me

   So they collected the cripples the wounded the maimed
           ^^^^^^^^^     ^^^^^^^^    
*          gathered      crippled,
   And they shipped us back home to Australia
   The armless the legless the blind the insane
   Those poor wounded heroes of Souvla
         ^^^^
*        proud
   And as our ship pulled into circular quay
   I looked at the place where my legs used to be
   And I thanked Christ there was no-one there waiting for me
   To grieve and to mourn and to pity
   And the band played "Waltzing Mathilda"
   As they wheeled us down the gangway
           ^^^^^^^
*          carried
   But nobody cheered they just stood there and stared
                                      ^^^^^
*  But nobody cheered; they just stood and stared
   Then they turned all their faces away

   And now every April I sit on my porch
   And I watch the parade pass before me
   I see my old comrades how proudly they march
   Renewing old dreams of past glory
   ^^^^^^^^
*  Reliving
   And the old men march slowly all bent stiff and sore
   The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war
   And the young people as "What are they marching for ?"
   And I ask myself the same question
   And the band plays "Waltzing Mathilda"
   And the old men still answer the call
   But year after year their numbers get fewer
       ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^                          
*  But as year follows year, more old men disappear
   Someday no-one will march there at all

   Waltzing Mathilda Waltzing Mathilda
   Who'll come a-waltzing Mathilda with me ?
   And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong
   Who'll come a-waltzing Mathilda with me ?


--
Gary A. Martin, Assistant Professor of Mathematics, UMass Dartmouth
Martin@cis.umassd.edu
Newsgroups: rec.music.folk