Our Heroic Dead
Our heroic dead, though war hath laid you low,
And cruelly robbed you of this earthly life,
You did your best against the fiendish foe,
And gave your all to put an end to strife.
Our comrades still, sleep on; your names will live
Long after this terrific war hath ceased.
No cannon’s roar, no hurtling shell, no bomb
Can harm thee or disturb your long last sleep.
Down in your soldiers’ graves you rest from toil,
Without the knowledge of the Hun’s fierce hate.
The shell-struck, blood-stained clods of Belgian soil
Will open to your souls the Pearly Gate.
There is no place on this earth’s troubled face
So sacred as the ground which shields your heads,
Fit resting-place for those so true and brave,
Who for the cause the fullest price have paid.
Australia’s sons the sacrifice supreme
For honour, truth, and freedom gladly made;
And though the price as high again had been,
We’d have paid it, bravely, for the Nation’s sake.
Comrades, sleep on, till God’s great Spirit comes
To clothe you with the life which never ends;
And o’er this shell-swept, bruised, and bleeding land
Victorious and enduring peace descends.