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SOUVENIR-CHARTERS TOWERS, 1872 to JULY, 1950                   Page 27


"Dedicated to the late Jimmy Clark"

THE late Mr. J. M. Clark, who all bandsmen affectionately referred to as "Boss," must have taught a thousand lads to play a brass instrument. His pupils have scattered far and wide and have given a good account of themselves in every part of Australia. The following "verse" was compiled by Mr. Clark during the first World War. He was conductor of the old "Towers Concert Band" for a great many years.


(Dedicated to the boys at the front by the Bandmaster, Mr. J. M. CLARK.)
    Where are the Boys of the Old Concert Band,
Whose faces we miss from all round the stand, The Boys who first covered their band with renown,
To the joy of themselves and the pride of the town.

The Boys who to Charity ne'er turned a deaf ear,
Whose thoughts were of others if them they could cheer,
On doing their duty, you could them depend,
    In helping their city or its honours defend.
    The Boys in whose company true pleasures were found,
Their object in banding was not for the brown,
In their white coats and caps so happy and gay
As an Irish Colleen on a sweet Patrick's day.

The Boys who went out to the contest in Cairns,
Who were told by the "Know all's" they'd yet much to learn.
They'll come back downhearted this squash band they termed,
    To another vocation they surely must turn.
    The Boys they were nervous, the conductor the same,
They were in a new role, and were mugs at the game,
The city had sent them, its honours defend,
And on them and another they must now depend.

Their playing was canny, the music a treat,
The attack it was perfect and dead on the beat,
Their ensemble was glorious, the band right     in tune,
The Judge's ears tingled, all others were doomed.

The Boys who went out yet again and again,
To different contests to do just the same,
For Championship honours those Boys did play,
And brought home the trophies and honours to stay.
    The honour's the City's the trophies are here,
But; where are the Boys that to us were so dear,
Their faces we miss, the lads we loved so,
Oh, why did they leave us, and where did they  go.
    Of a trouble in Serbia the newspapers told,
How quickly the War cloud o'er Europe did roll,
That Belgium was invaded its cities o'er run,
By friends as from Hell, in the shape of the Hun.

Who outraged the Women, nor studied the aged,
In atrocities vile these villains engaged,
Murdered the helpless killed children with sword,
    Till humanity wondered if there was a God.
    Now this was too much for England to stand,
The land of the free the brave and the grand,
Sent her handful to Mons who held them at bay,
And if they'd had more, they'd have been there to-day.
    But that thin line it held altho' twisted and torn,
And battered and bruised, Yes, with half of them gone,
Till England got ready her Army and guns,
That are proving too good for the terrible Huns,

The call reached Australia, and that was enough,
For the Boys of our land they are of the right stuff,
Who cherish their Women, No time for the  cur,
    Together they banded old Fritz for to stir.
    At Gallipoli the impossible by those lads  was done,
To land on those shores in the face of the guns,
Their feats on that Peninsula have brought  them renown,
With honour it echoes the wide world around.

And away through Pozieres they are fighting to-night,
To give back to France and Belgium their right,
And amongst those brave Boys are those of our Band,
Whose faces we miss from all round the stand.

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