Australia’s sons must march away,
Your boy will go with mine,
To fight or die, God grant they may
Return to us some day
Back from the fighting line,
Where skies are torn with shot and shell.
Where death is stalking near,
The Y.M.C.A., noble band,
Will give your boys a helping hand
Will speak a word of cheer.
At hut or tent, where all is free,
Our soldier lads attend.
They know they’re welcome, day or night,
To play their games, to read or write
To mother, wife, or friend.
In distant lands, on foreign shores,
A friend the boys all need,
To right a wrong, a grief to share,
And in the Y.M.C.A. there
They find a friend indeed.
“A bit of home,” one soldier said,
Who played the greater game.
Australia rises then to greet
The noble-hearted band who treat
All men and creeds the same.
The Red Triangle calls to-day
For help to bear the strain
Of big expense on every hand,
And, well we know, in Anzac land,
It will not call in vain.