He sits and he dreams where his campfire gleams
An old man of tribal renown,
So sad and alone in his true native home.
A King without subjects or crown.
His fears are at rest but the scars on his breast
Tell stories so brave without doubt,
But his fighting is o’er and he waits for the call
To go on that last walkabout.
The skill of the chase was the pride of his race
Now fading from memory fast
Like the wild kangaroo and stately emu
Too soon will be things of the past.
There’s a tale yet untold both tragic and bold
A tale far too long to describe,
How a merciless band with weapons in hand
Once slaughtered the pick of his tribe.
So he gathered more braves from coastland and caves
And trailed them through mountains and snow,
And so we are told, like a wolf on the fold
He humbled the pride of his foes.
But the braves he once led are scattered and dead
They’ve melted away like the dew.
And his waddy and shield were left on the field
The day his last battle was through.
His lubra’s asleep where the supple jacks creep
O’er the limbs of the banksia tree,
And her funeral dirge was the sad endless surge
Of the waves of the cold restless sea.
Then disturb not his dreams of bushland and streams
And deeds in the chase and the fray,
E’re an alien race without pity or grace
Had trampled the pride of Kurnai.