And so now every April, I sit on me porch
And I watch the parades pass before me
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reviving old dreams of past glories
And the old men march slowly, old bones stiff and sore
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask, "what are they marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question
The Band Played Waltzing Matilda
--Eric Bogle