There’s a shaker up the gully,
There’s a paddock partly stripped
And a shovel, pick and dishes lying round
And a little heap of tailings
Lying underneath the sieves
And a heap of hopper stones upon the ground.
But the hand that shook the shaker
Nevermore will raise a ‘run’,
O’er the ripples of the eight and twenty-four,
For he’s numbered with the lost ones
And he’s bleaching in the sun
On the deserts of this God-forsaken shore.
What’s his name? and whence he came?
That’s more than we can tell,
Though we know his name was Bob, like many more.
Now those dull and dreary deserts
Of the wild and weary West
Have another Daring soul to ponder o’er
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Moya Sharp
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