There’s a certain type of fighter, he’s
A daring, dashing blighter:
He never seems to know the word ‘retreat’;
With a bayonet on his rifle, you can
Bet he’ll never trifle,
As a fighting man he’s got old Jerry beat.
When the British go to battle, with
Their usual flash and rattle,
The man I speak of often does the most.
He’s a great offensive scrapper,
As a soldier, very dapper,
And altho’ he’s talkative you’ll
Seldom hear him boast.
He showed his blooming starch when
He stopped the Huns in March -
They were headed for the port of old Calais.
With shouts of bold defiance, and
He stopped them in his own aggressive way.
When you look back through the ages,
Turning over history’s pages,
You’ll find brave deeds of men in every war.
But no breed of man looms bigger
Than the rough-and-ready Digger –
My hat’s off to the Anzacs – it’s those
Sons I’m speaking for.