a song favoured by the 2/14th. Sung often by ‘Butch’ and Stan Bisset

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
from glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summers gone, and all the flowers are dying,
Tis you, tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summers in the meadow
or when the valleys hushed and white with snow
Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

sung to the tune of Wings over the navy

Spearhead of the army
frontliners are we
we’re tops of the service
the Fourteenth Infantry
swinging down the highway
singing merrily
we’re fistical, ballistical
and very much militaristical
we are the boys for the scraps
just look at the tilt of our hats
we’re even very definetly
most belligerent chaps
Oh, spearhead of the army
the Fourteenth Infantry

Matt Lynch, Trekker, March 2004

I went for a bit of a walk one day,
To see what I could see,
And some spirits of our finest,
Introduced themselves to me.

For nine days and eight nights,
I walked along the Track,
From Kokoda to Ower’s Corner,
And there was no going back.

It provided me with a glimpse,
Of what the diggers must have faced,
Fighting the war against the Japs,
And dying with their mates.

I’ll never ever forget that time,
When I went for a walk,
And if I listen hard enough,
I still can hear them talk.

Endurance Courage Mateship Sacrifice,
Is what they always say,
And those are the things I think about,
As I live from day to day.

So when I’m feeling out of luck,
I think about those four words,
And then I don’t give a #@$%,
Because the human spirit doesn’t waver
Lax or even bend,
It’s forever constant in your heart,
It’s with you till the end.

by Sapper Bert Beros

We knew he came from the Western State,
Though to us he remained unknown;
For the WX was marked in his hat -
The rest a mortar had blown.

We buried him there, on the mountain spur,
where the trees are draped in moss;
We thought of his mother, no news for her
of that irreplaceable loss.

Just a boy he looked, with his snowy hair,
As we laid him down in the clay;
The padre’s voice was low and clear,
No others had words to say.

Yet we knew a mother would watch and wait,
for a letter sent by her boy,
How she would dream of the things he did,
How his first words caused her joy

And as he went off to school or game,
he’d wave her fond goodbyes.
Just as he did when the great call came,
And the hot tears hurt her eyes.

Perhaps she will know in some unknown way,
Of that little rugged cross,
The remains of her hero beneath it lay,
Where the trees are draped in moss.

We cursed the foe, who stripped the dead,
No pity on them can be shown.
We marked his cross so it can be read,
“WX” Unknown.