Explore "The Stockman's Last Bed" by Andrew Barton Paterson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear. / Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear / The crack of his stockwhip, his steed's lively trot, / His clear "Go ahead, boys," his jingling quart pot.
Chorus / For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed, / And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed.
Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow. / "Alas! " cried poor Jack, "it's all up with me now, / For I never again shall my saddle regain, / Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain."
His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn, / His steed looks in vain for his master's return; / No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies; / Save Australia's dark sons, few know where he lies.
Now, stockman, if ever on some future day / After the wild mob you happen to stray, / Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread, / Where alone and neglected poor Jack's bones are laid.