Andrew Barton Paterson (Эндрю Бартон Патерсон)
Boots
We’ve travelled per Joe Gardiner, a humping of our swag In the country of the Gidgee and Belar. We’ve swum the Di’mantina with our raiment in a bag, And we’ve travelled per superior motor car, But when we went to Germany we hadn’t any choice, No matter what our training or pursuits, For they gave us no selection ’twixt a Ford or Rolls de Royce So we did it in our good Australian boots. They called us ”mad Australians”; they couldn’t understand How officers and men could fraternise, Thay said that we were ”reckless”, we were ”wild, and out of hand”, With nothing great or sacred to our eyes. But on one thing you could gamble, in the thickest of the fray, Though they called us volunteers and raw recruits, You could track us past the shell holes, and the tracks were all one way Of the good Australian ammunition boots. The Highlanders were next of kin, the Irish were a treat, The Yankees knew it all and had to learn, The Frenchmen kept it going, both in vict’ry and defeat, Fighting grimly till the tide was on the turn. And our army kept beside ’em, did its bit and took its chance, And I hailed our newborn nation and its fruits, As I listened to the clatter on the cobblestones of France Of the good Australian military boots.
Andrew Barton Paterson’s other poems:
950
