Haul hard on the ropes Gunners
stay close to the track
haul hard on the ropes Gunners
there's no turning back.

Sing your waiata Gunners
haul hard and sing
Taupiri's steep, Gunners
and the old women cling.

No more the fire missions Gunners
his time has come
halt at the top Gunners
turn his face to the sun.

Bury him deep Gunners
then shed a last tear
this chief now sleeps Gunners
as the evening draws near.

One last goodbye Gunners
his final rest
The Regiment's loss Gunners
he was one of our best.

Through the open window
across the meadow green
and down beside the river bank
I drift at night in dream.

Where willows sweep the water
and birdsong fills the air
the morning sunlight greets me
with wild flowers everywhere.

A fat jack trout for breakfast
and a brew of billy tea
the smell of burning wood smoke
that's where I long to be.

So give me some more dreamtime
and I'll drift back there once more
to a time of endless sunshine
before the Vietnam war.

Young man, you ask me who I am,
and why I wear this faded yellow ribbon...

I am the woman, who held your dying uncle's hand,
and wrote a letter once that broke your grandma's heart.

I am she, who met the 'Dust-Off' at the door,
and carried bloodied, broken bodies through to triage.

Then cut through muddied boots and bloody combat gear,
and washed away the blood and fear and jungle.

I kept the faith when even hope was lost,
and cried within, as young lives ebbed away.

Those hours when death, frosted dying eyes,
mine, was the last smile many young men saw.

I have the voice, that blinded eyes remember,
and the touch of reassurance through the pain.

In darkest night when combat would return,
it was my name that many soldiers called.

I have dressed their wounds, and wiped away their tears,
and often read them letters sent from mum.

I hugged them close, and willed each one my strength,
and smiled and prayed that each boy made it home.

And here today, you ask me who I am...
I am the Nurse, who served in Vietnam.

There's a cross on a cliff near the headland
where a sailor once fell to his death
and an old wooden hut close behind it
that's got seal blubber stored underneath.

It's a lonely old walk from McMurdo
and the vastness just catches your eye
but you trudge through the snow to get down there
to honour those brave men who died.

There are memories waiting to greet you
and ghostly shapes lurk by the door
clean your bunny-boots if you should enter
'cause the ghosts don't want mud on the floor.

Inside there's a real sense of history
and the presence of spirits long gone
there's a table where men mapped adventure
swapped yarns, shared meals and heard song.

On the back of the door hangs a mutton
I've seen it, I know that it's there
and the rest of the hut is a time warp
with boxes and tins everywhere.

In the bay the whales are sounding
while the skua gulls wheel overhead
and the seals on the pack ice are sleeping
as penguin chicks wait to be fed.

There's an old weathered hut on a headland
that's waiting for Scott I am told
but he's frozen in time in the highlands
he never got back from the Pole.

Dear Mr Subritzky, sorry to be a bore,
but we're sending your son Danny to the Bosnian War.
Yes, we know you did Rhodesia, your cousin Bill did Vietnam,
but we're running out of soldiers and we need a few good men.

Sure, your uncle Jack the Anzac, was in the Battle of Chunuk Bair,
and Bob Subritzky caught a packet on the Somme.
But we need a few good men, to send to Europe once again,
and we'll kit them out and send them with a song.

Cousin Fredo got a head wound in the Monte Cassino fight,
and poor old Archi, he went crazy on the wire one stormy night.
Yes, your family's done its' bit, but it doesn't count for shit,
and when your son gets back, we'll give the lad a gong.

Now you know the bloody score, it's just another friggin' war,
and we're off in a couple of days, to the blood and smoke and haze.
Of course your boy should be alright, unless the Serbs decide to fight,
because the Moslems in his sector seem OK.

Dear Mr Subritzky, I hate to be a bore,
but we're sending your son Danny to the Bosnian War.
Yes, we know you did Rhodesia, and your cousin Bill Vietnam
But we're running out of soldiers and we need a few good men.

Dear Mr Subritzky, it's only one more war
This time we're sending Danny, I'm sure you know the score
Of course he'll be alright, unless the Serbs decide to fight,
The Moslems in his sector seem OK.

Dear Mr Subritzky, there's been many times before
When the menfolk in your family have been sent away to war
And of course he'll be alright, unless the Serbs decide to fight
The Moslems in his sector seem OK

There's death all around me, there's death in the air,
I can smell it and feel it - and I know now the fear.
The road could be mined, or an ambush await,
it may be the end - our appointment with fate.

The escorts have left us, we're now on our own,
I'm as frightened as hell - and we're all so alone.
Our armour is moving, we're leaving the town,
Rhodesians are waving, - "Keep your heads down!"

I look at the Gunner, his face is all drawn,
his machine gun is loaded - and the safety catch on.
We drive through the war zone, on dirt roads blood red,
past African kraals - with children unfed.

Expecting a tank mine, or bullet to tell,
or a Russian made rocket - to take us to hell.
At Assembly Place "Lima", the site of an old kraal,
we finally halt - and put our backs to the wall.

Raise the stars of our nation, raise the Brit's Union Jack,
put the dread right behind us - for there's no turning back.
Not there for the fighting, not there for the fall,
we are the friend of no one - and the enemy of all.
...We are the Peacekeepers.

Sarge I think I'm buggered,
I'm bitten on me back,
a bloody snakes bin crawlin' thru the grass.
So call the Medic quick,
to give me arm a prick,
and take away the pain until I pass.

Yer mate the Bombardier,
can have me 'ish' of beer,
I won't be drinkin' Fosters when I go.
I've wrote me mum a note,
and I've put it in me pack,
she's livin' down near Kunga-munga-mo.

So tell me Aussie mates,
you'ze Kiwi bloody skates,
have caused the death of one of Anzac's finest.
And when I pass away,
don't put me in the clay,
the bloody dingo's here are rife as goats.

What's that you bloody say?
The choppers on its' way?
it won't be here in time to save this Digger.

The Doc he said it's what?
Now how did that get there?
A tear tab from a beer can caused this wound?

Well, the pain will pass away,
and I'll fight another day,
but PLEEZE you'ze Kiwi's keep this to yourselves!

A cigarette comrade -

before I die

my face is torn

and my eyes are gone

but if you hold it to my lips

I can still draw the flame.

It matters not comrade -

that we are foe

I'm comfortable here

in your hospital tent

quietly bleeding into the dirt below.

Forgive me comrade -

if I call my mothers name

but it's so lonely here

on your hospital floor

and it helps me with the pain.

You weep for me comrade -

please don't be sad

the cowbells sound

I hear the doves

it is a good day for my life to end.

The butt is sodden comrade -

and I leave you now

goodbye my friend

until we meet again

far, far away from this African hell.