Words: Al Frank
Music: "Farewell tae th' Creeks" by Hamish Henderson

 The sergeant is saddened. The piper is fey.
 There's no Dorsai whiskey they're havin' today.
 The skies to the westward are clouded and grey
 And all of the soldiers are leavin'.
     And it's march, march, down to the landing,
     And sit on your packs while the ferry's away.
     And it's fare ye well ye green hills of Harmony.
     All the poor soldiers are leaving.
 One contract's fulfilled but another's been made.
 The elders have told us our time's overstayed.
 Light up if you've got 'em, lie back in the shade.
 When the ferry comes down, we'll be leavin'.

 A cloud's movin' eastward. It's covered the sun.
 It's a hell of a life when you carry a gun.
 You sweat when you're fighting. You freeze when you're done
 And it rains on the day that you're leavin'.

 Some fight for the glory. Some fight for the pay.
 But we are the Dorsai and fighting's our way.
 It's a hard life to live, but it's harder to stay
 When all of your buddies are leavin'.
     So it's smokes out, look there by the landin' ~
     The ferry's come back. Saddle up. Come away.
     And it's fare ye well ye green hills of Harmony,
     For all the poor Dorsai are leavin'.

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