Shall his cheery voice be heard.
Liked he was with' all his failings;
Let no idle hand efface.
That rude ring of rough split palings,
Marking out his resting place.
Sadly have his comrades left him
Where the cane-grass, gently stirred
By the north wind, bends and quivers—
Where the bell-bird's note is heard;
Where the tangled "boree" blossoms,