'The Stockman’s Last Bed' 

Whither Stockman or not for a moment give ear
Poor Jack’s breathed his last, and no more shall we hear
The crack of his whip or his steeds lively trot,
His clear go a-head and his jingling quart pot
He rests where the wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
And tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.

When drafting one day he was gored by a cow, 
Alas, cried for poor Jack, its all up with me now;
I’ll no more return to my saddle again, 
Or bound like a wallaby over the plain.
I’ll rest where the wattles their sweet fragrance shed 
And tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.

My whip must be silent, my steed he will mourn, 
My dogs look in vain for their master’s return,
Unknown and forgotten, unheeded I’ll die, 
Save Australia’s dark sons none will know where I lie.
I’ll rest where the wattles their sweet fragrance shed 
And tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.