rose is indeed a rose -- rory's got the Pogues cranked up -- thanks to rose

People of beautiful spirit, kindness, humor and generosity who truck on like that even with the shitstorm ragin' outside are treasure. I "met" a person like that early on in my short bloggin' stint. rose. You read her blog and her comments and you knowit. No fiction based reality there. Just real. Semi-sane, yes, and ain't that a lovely thing. But real. So, this Rose, she posts the lovely lyrics to the Pogues rendition of Waltzing Matilda, a beautiful, anti-war song that'll play your heart with sad velvet fingers. I comment: "one of my favorite songs, or somethin' like that ... used to be in possession of the album from whence I first heard it -- rum sodomy and the lash, it's called -- makes me wanna hear it." Make a short story shorter: she sends rory the album! I get it today. But there's more beautiful music and color in the envelope ... from the one who blogs in color. rory thankz rose. And again the lyrics of Waltzing Matilda, which Rose put up recently:

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

How I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was ready, oh he primed himself well;
He rained us with bullets, and he showered us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

Those who were living just tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

They collected the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all tired, stiff and sore,
The weary old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, their numbers get fewer...
Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?