Their glory shall never die, the whole wide world is their sepulchre, their epitaphs are written in the hearts of mankind and whenever there is talk of noble deeds, their names will be held in grateful remembrance.
They are not dead, the men who fell
Though sounds for them, the vesper bell
And loved ones gather at the shrine
They live in hearts, yours and mine
They live in mountain or in glade,
In shearing shed or place of trade
At school or on the field of play
They live, those men, who marched away.
They are not dead, the men who fought
The sons of valour who feared nought of man’s devising
But who trod their deathly path that leads to God.
Their call down the bushg tracks still is heard
They’re whistled in a song of bird
Their laughter like a wood note wild
Is heard in some Australian child.
They are not dead, but gone before
Low crosses marked on Anzac shore
At Shrapnel Gully and Lone Pine
Where rests those mates of yours and mine
The fields of flanders, hills of Crete
Sound no more to their marching feet
But they are still here at our side
Th emen who fell but never died.
They are not dead, they cannot be
They’re part of you and part of me
The smile, the nod, the steadfast look,
Could never perish in Tobruk
Nor could there fade on Bardia sand,
The cheery voice, the friendly hand,
though seas and lands and years divide,
Our comrades live, they have not died.