Six abreast come marching,
With boots and brasses glow,
Each in step with the time,
Their movements seem to flow.

Slowly they move down the ramp,
A truly perfect stride,
With chins up and backs straight,
It would well you up with pride.

But there are no smiles on this parade,
No crowd applauding,
Just silence and tears on cheeks,
The families in their mourning.

The burden on their khaki shoulders,
Is carried with utmost care,
For inside lays a soldier lost,
And the life the he did share.

They place him within the Hurst,
For a procession through the streets,
With salutes shown and colours bowed,
To the sound of marching feet.

Forever we shall remember,
Those that have not returned,
For freedom is never given,
But in blood it is always earned.