He sits and he dreams,
where his campfire gleams,
An old man of tribal renown.
So sad and alone
in his true native home
A king without subjects or crown
His fears are at rest,
but the scars on his breast
Tell stories so brave without doubt
Now he's fighting his oar,
and he waits for the call
To go on that last walk about
The skill of the chase,
once the pride of his race
Now fading from memory fast
Like the wild kangaroo and stately emu,
Too soon will be things of the past.
There's a tale yet untold,
both tragic and old,
A tale far too long to describe.
How a merciless band,
with weapons in hand,
once slaughtered the pick of his tribe.
So he gathered more braves
from coastlands and caves
And trailed them through
mountains of snow
And fell, are told,
like a wolf on the fold,
And humbled the pride of his foe.
But the brave he once led
are scattered and dead,
They've melted away like the dew.
And his waddy and shield
were left on the field
The day his last battle was through
His Louvre's asleep,
where the supple jacks creep
All the limbs of the Banksy a tree
And her funeral dirge
was the sad endless surge
Of the waves of the cold restless sea
Then disturb not his dreams
of bushlands and streams,
And deeds in the chase and the prey,
Ere an alien race, without pity or grace,
Had trampled the pride of Canae. you