We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods
At the foot of the Eaglehawk;
We fashioned a cross on the old man's
For fear that his ghost might walk;
We carved his name on a bloodwood
With the date of his sad
And in place of "Died from effects of spree"We wrote "May he rest in peace".
For Bob was known on the Overland,
A regular old bush wag,
Tramping along in the dust and sand,
Humping his well-worn swag.
He would camp for days in the river-bed,
And loiter and "fish for whales"."I'm into the swagman's yard," he said."And I never shall find the rails."But he found the rails on that summer
For a better place — or worse,
As we watched by turns in the flickering
With an old black gin for nurse.
The breeze came in with the scent of pine,
The river sounded clear,
When a change came on, and we saw the
That told us the end was near.
He spoke in a cultured voice and low —"I fancy they've 'sent the route';
I once was an army man, you know,
Though now I'm a drunken brute;
But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,
And, if ever you're fairly stuck,
Just take and shovel me out of the
And, maybe,
I'll bring you luck."For I've always heard —" here his voice grew weak,
His strength was wellnigh sped,
He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,
Then fell in a moment — dead.
Thus ended a wasted life and hard,
Of energies misapplied —Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard"And over the Great Divide. The drought came down on the field and flock,
And never a raindrop fell,
Though the tortured moans of the starving
Might soften a fiend from hell.
And we thought of the hint that the swagman
When he went to the Great Unseen —We shovelled the skeleton out of the
To see what his hint might mean.
We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,
We shovelled away the mould,
When sudden a vein of quartz lay
All gleaming with yellow gold.'Twas a reef with never a fault nor
That ran from the range's crest,
And the richest mine on the
Is known as "The Swagman's Rest".
