Classic Poem

O the wild black swans fly westward still,
While the sun goes down in glory —
And away o'er lonely plain and hill
Still runs the same old story:
The sheoaks sigh it all day long —
It is safe in the Big Scrub's keeping —
'Tis the butcher-birds' and the bell-birds' song
In the gum where — Unknown — lies sleeping —
(It is heard in the chat of the soldier-birds
O'er the grave where — Unknown — lies sleeping.)

Ah! the Bushmen knew not his name or land,
Or the shame that had sent him here —
But the Bushmen knew by the dead man's hand
That his past life lay not near.
The law of the land might have watched for him,
Or a sweetheart, wife, or mother;
But they bared their heads, and their eyes were dim,
For he might have been a brother!
(Ah! the death he died brought him near to them,
For he might have been a brother.)

O the wild black swans to the westward fade,
And the sunset burns to ashes,
And three times bright on an eastern range
The light of a big star flashes,
Like a signal sent to a distant strand
Where a dead man's love sits weeping.
And the night comes grand to the Great Lone Land
O'er the grave where — Unknown — lies sleeping,
And the big white stars in their clusters blaze
O'er the Bush where — Unknown — lies sleeping.