You’ve heard the pioneer’s stories
Of men who died of thirst
But here’s a tale that should be told
Of the gallant 51st.

They left their homes and parents
for the sunny plains of France
To fight for King and country
But they never stood a chance.

Though greatly outnumbered
Gallantly they fell
For the roar of guns and dropping bombs
Made life a living hell.

They tried their best like heroes should
To save the homes of France
But the odds were dead against them
No, they never stood a chance.

Thousands fell dead or wounded
Beneath the sun and moon
Then came the deadliest blow of all
On that fateful 12th of June.

They had just been told the glorious news
The news long waited for
That they were going home on leave
Back to old Blighty shore.

Each lad was overwhelmed with joy
Each heart was beating fast
When there came floating through the air
The sound of a bugle blast.

Silence reigned, not a soldier spoke
A puzzled frown spread oer each face
Till the sound of bugle died away
Not a man stirred from his place.

For it meant to surrender to lay down arms
And many an eye shed a tear
The shuffling of feet, an occasional sob
Were the only sound you could here
But it was an order which must be obeyed
Each man stood as stiff as a larch
As one by one they were searched and disarmed
Then they started their long hunger march.

Neath the blistering heat of the mid-day sun
They started their long hunger tramp
From St Valery to … they slowly marched
Suffering from hunger and cramp.

Every day was just the same
Marching on and on
Through Hamerie [?] Forges Doullens and St. Poll
Driven by boot and butt of gun.

Through France and then Belgium
They slowly winded their way
Weak with hunger, parched with thirst
Each hour was like a day.

Footsore, ragged unclean men
Wishing that they were dead
Praying to God to give them strength
Begging for crusts of bread.

Each morning at 5 o’clock
They were headed on their way
Praying to God give them strength
To stand each trying day.

Sleeping in open fields at night
Suffering from damp and cold
Dreaming of food and water
Which to all of them was gold.

But still they joked and plodded on
Their spirits would not bend
They bore their hardships with a grin
Till they reached their journey’s end

They hope and pray there’ll come a time
When … , he will pay
For that hunger march they’ll never forget
Until their dying day.