In his polished uniform an old man walks, On the morning of a parade under the sun, Slowly marching to memorial square, A proud man is he, strong character done.
His years have lengthened, his wisdom arch, His colour fades, avering his wearied smile, And this matters not to the reverent young.
Flags are waved and the crowd's feelings soar, Feeling grateful for the old man's service, To his country, at the time of war, He survived with tales of carnage and horror.
That all might understand war is not nice, It is, after all, a human vice, And yet he has served his country proud.
It is the fallen that ever speaks aloud, Of bravery and mateship spirit, When, at the descending of the sun, And in the dawning, they shall remain proud.
For age shall not weary them, And the places where they died are sacred, To those who will remember them.