Where the hills are steep and rugged
And the wattles bend and wave
By a bend in the creek in the ranges
Lies a bushman’s lonely grave;
Gone are the rails that marked it
And many summers have found
The last resting place of the bushman
Is only a weed-grown mound.
In this lonely place in the ranges
Where the scrubbers and wallabies roam,
‘Midst the river gums and bloodwoods
This bushman made his home.
His cattle roamed the valleys
No wire to fence them in;
His boundaries as he knew them
Stretched out to the sunset’s rim.
The last of the old-time stockmen,
The last of a dying breed,
Born to fork the saddle and
To steady up the lead.
His stock-whip rang in the musters
O’er country where he rode
On tireless horses, with speckled dogs
He lived by the bushman’s code.
He is resting now on the creek-bank
Where the south wind sighs in the trees,
And the tall grass by his graveside
Is caressed by the evening breeze.
When the wild dog stirs from his rock lair
And the moon rides high in the sky;
I wonder: “Does the old-timer hear
The brumby mobs go by?
Or hear again the curlew’s wail
Or the dingo’s lonesome cry;
Or see again the fiery streaks
That light up the western sky?”
Rest well in peace old timer,
Your grave is known to me;
When passing through with cattle
Your mound I’ll always see;
And sit on my horse and wonder
At the grit of the pioneer,
See the swirling dust, hear the hoof-beats
Of musters of yester-year
By Craig Dunbar
Moya Sharp
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Very interesting reading Moya. Keep up the good work. Thanking you so much
Wendy