here for the music]
sung after each verse
Wrap me up with my stock-whip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me,
In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
A strapping young stock-man lay dying,
His saddle supporting his head,
His two mates around him were crying
As he rose on his saddle and said.
Oh had I the flight of the bronze-wing,
Far over the plains would I fly,
Straight to the land of my child-hood
And there I would lay down and die.
Then cut down a couple of saplings,
Place one at my head and my toe,
Carve on them, cross stock-whip and saddle,
To show there's a stock-man below.
Hark there is the wail of a dingo,
Watchful and weird I must go,
For it tolls the death knell of the stock-man
From the gloom of the scrub down below
There's tea in the battered old billy
Place the paninkins out in a row,
And we'll drink to the next merry meeting,
In the place where all good-fellows go.
And oft in the shades of the twilight,
When the soft winds are whispering low,
And the darkening shadows are falling,
Sometimes think of the stockman below