Tom the stockman's gone—he'll never

Use again his supple thong,

Or, dashing madly through the mulga,

Urge the scattered herd along.

O'er for Tom is life's hard battle!

Well he rode, and nothing feared;

Never more among the cattle

Shall his cheery voice be heard.

Liked he was with' all his failings;

Let no idle hand efface.

That rude ring of rough split palings,

Marking out his resting place.

Sadly have his comrades left him

Where the cane-grass, gently stirred

By the north wind, bends and quivers—

Where the bell-bird's note is heard;

Where the tangled "boree" blossoms,

Where the "gidya" thickets wave,

And the tall yapunyah's * shadow

Rests upon the stockman's grave.