where his campfire gleams,
An old man of tribal renown.
A king without subjects or crown
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
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,
A tale far too long to describe.
once slaughtered the pick of his tribe.
So he gathered more braves
from coastlands and caves
And humbled the pride of his foe.
But the brave he once led
They've melted away like the dew.
The day his last battle was through
where the supple jacks creep
All the limbs of the Banksy a tree
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
