Faded Pictures

My name is Sandy Donaldson, please listen while I tell,
How I was brought up in Nelson, a town I love so well.
The year my schooling ended I became a farming hand,
Never dreaming that I'd soon be in some distant foreign land.

For we were restless, brave and carefree, as young men one and all,
When we heard the cry for freedom and rallied to the call.
We never thought to question the reason or the why,
As through the crowded streets we marched and proudly waved goodbye.

We left behind our families, nursing sorrow grief and pain,
Not knowing if we would return or ever meet again.
Our troopship sailed for Egypt and her burning desert sands,
Where our thoughts were ever mindful of our own fair native land.

My best mate's name was Scotty who used to shear the wool,
He was forever joking and playing Nature's fool.
His wit and sense of humour kept us sane throughout the war,
But when the guns fell silent, his laugh was heard no more.

He was one of many to make the final sacrifice,
Standing up for King and Country and what he believed was right.
Those of us returning from that journey into Hell,
Knew we'd never fight again, we'd learned our lesson well.

Their graves today lie buried under Western Desert sands,
In the South Seas and in Europe where white crosses stand in bands.
That they died to end all fighting was the politicians vow,
Yet the counties that were vanquished are the ones who prosper now!

There are photos just like Scottys in homesteads big and small,
Standing on the mantel or displayed on family walls.
In memory of sons and husbands who failed to return...
To the homes they left in uniform, but would never see again.

The fighting still continues every time that bugle sounds,
For the price of mankind's freedom lies buried 'neath the ground.
So we need to be reminded before the Bomb begins to fall,
Of the sadness that surrounds those faded pictures on the wall.

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