Are you there Peter Lalor, are you there,
ghost with gold-dust in your hair;
and lean Stuart do you ride
to seek your northern tide
where in greens they're slowly swinging
through the mud, too tired for singing,
where the poison of New Guinea fills the air?
Are you there, untiring Eyre, are you there,
with your heart beyond compare;
are you there, you brave wild Kellys
where heroes on their bellies
through the jungle now are creeping
--may their women have no weeping--
where snipers from their tree-tops coldly stare?
You ghosts that walk beside
them, do you watch them now with pride
as through green hell and glory
they carry on your story
where in mud their feet are sinking
and in dreams they're always thinking
of their homes and of the cobbers that have died?