He was just 16, when he went away to a land across the sea.
To a place he'd never heard of, that they called Gallipoli.

He was one of many thousands, who were sent off to that place.
And among the proud Australians, he was just another face.

But he got in those special favours, as he did his share of work, 
as he dodged a range of bullets from the guns of Johnny Turk.

He saw dead men all around him, in the trenches and the sea. 
And he came to the conclusion, that this war should never be. 

But his unit had their orders, they were going up the hill.
And he wondered as he went, how many men he'd have to kill.

Could he squeeze the trigger, to protect himself from harm?
Would it be like shooting foxes, with his father on the farm. 

They were almost to the summit; he was leading all the rest.
When a bullet from a Turkish gun fell deep into his chest. 

And he didn't hear the fighting as they carried him back down, 
and he didn’t see the doctors shake their wearied heads and frown. 

But he heard his mother begging, not to go off to that place, 
and he saw his sisters weeping, as kissed each teary face.

And a quietness came upon him, as he drew his final breath.
In that godforsaken country he was visited by death.

Now we march for him and others, every year on ANZAC Day.
For the sad price made by them, in places far away. 

But the spirit of the ANZACs is alive and going yet.
And we're so proud to be Australians when we hear "Lest We Forget".

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