I was away from Sydney, Dan,
The first time, too, for years,
And far from any Sydney man,
When Kitchener shed tears —
I'm speaking of the third time, Dan,
That Kitchener shed tears.

The first was in his cradle laid —
When Kitchener shed tears:
Maybe he shed them several times
In those few early years —
I'm speaking of the periods
When Kitchener shed tears.

The second time, I understand,
They were not tears of gloom —
'Twas on the wreck of Gordon's House
In the ruins of Khartoum,
While left and right, and in the front
He heard his cannon boom.
(The spot where Britishers have since
Erected Gordon's tomb) —
And now I reach the third time, Dan,
And these were Tears of Doom.

They were not born of memories,
Nor yet of many beers,
He'd not been reading Lawson's pomes —
When Kitchener shed tears.
He'd not sat under George Reid's jokes
Nor charged through Bingi's spears —
He'd seen a real Australian fort!
When Kitchener shed tears.

He bravely tried to keep them back —
The hardest fight for years —
But true Australians kept it dark
Who saw the trace of tears.
He reached the railway station, Dan,
Beyond the aid of beers,
And went into a private place
And there he shed his tears.

I wish I'd been in Sydney, Dan,
To soothe Imperial fears,
Or at the worst, to weep with him
And wipe away his tears.
He was a man and brother, Dan,
When Kitchener shed tears.