They buried Doug Dibley today,
a fine old gentleman who died in his sleep,
at Rotorua on a hot December afternoon.
No warrior's death for him on Walker's Ridge,
where the poppies fed on the blood and frozen dreams
of good young men from Wellington.
A day's leave and a seven-year-old son at my side,
we bore witness as six tall infantrymen in service dress
raised him high from the gun carriage,
and quietly marched his flag-draped casket to eternal rest
among the trees and hills of his beloved Ngongotaha.
Volleys fired and mournful bugles call,
we shall not see his like again,
no more grow old as yet no more remain
with living memory of that time,
when machine gun and bayonet did their awful work,
and Anzac boys closed with desperate Turk,
among the gullies and crumbling ridges
of a foreign coast that was Gallipoli.
Remember this day my son,
remember this hour and this place,
for here and now they bury this Nation's last lament,
to a time of King and Empire.
And the poppies on the ridges grow,
and the scrub thorn in the valleys thrive,
and the memory of young mates who died
we sod this day with Trooper Dibley.