As I followed a bridle track, I noticed something
          black.
  That was lying 'neath a shady wattle tree;
It was a bushman lying there, free from woe and  
          worldly care   
   He had died of thirst and gone to Eternity.

Near that barren watercourse, I dismounted from
          my horse,
   And turned the lifeless body on its back;
The hair was silvery grey, on the man I found
          that day,
   Lying dead beside the bushman's lonely track.

All was quiet where I found him, in his blankets
          there I bound him;
   And laid him in his lonely nameless grave;
Where the station stock may ramble, and there   
          the wild scrub bramble
   But where no little petals ever wave.  

In that wild and lonely wood, by his little grave I
             stood
   With a longing that I cannot comprehend;
No stone stands at the head of the bushman's        .........    lonely bed,
   Where he died his lonely death without a friend.

That sight I've n'er forgot, he was buried
            on the spot,
    Where I found him when riding with the mail;
He was buried in his clothes, and his name no-one
            knows,
   And his bed was never fenced with stone or rail.

Above his little grave the wattle blossoms wave,
   Far far away in yonder West;
All is quiet where he's lying, o'er his grave the trees
          are sighing,
   And there's nothing to disturb his peaceful rest.

                                            James Philip Hewlett