And gathering mould on the badges he won.
We’ll take the old horse to the paddocks to-morrow,
Where grasses are waving breast-high on the plain;
And there with the clean-skins we’ll turn him in sorrow
And muster him never, ah, never, again.
The bush bird will sing when the shadows are creeping
A sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell’s—
Oh, would it might ring where the bush boy is sleeping,
And colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.