Oh,
strapping young stockman lay dying
A saddle supporting his head
All around him his true mates were crying
As he leaned on his elbow and said
Wrap me up with my stock
whip and blanket
And bury me deep down below
Where the dingoes and
crows can't mo lest me
In the shade where
the coulibards grow
There's tea in the old battered billy
Place the panikins all in a row
And we'll drink to the
last merry meeting
For I'm going where good stockmen go
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 coulibas grow
Oh 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 stockman below.
Wrap me up with my stock
whip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where the dingoes and crows
can't mo lest me
In the shade where the
coulibars grow
Hark! there's the call of the curlew
Sounding so mournful and low
He sings the last song of the stockman,
for he's go ing where
good stockmen go.
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 coulibas grow.
Oh, had I the flight of the bronze wing,
Far o 'er the plains would I fly.
I'd fly right back to my true love,
and there in her arms I would die.
Wrap me up with my stop
-whip and blanket,
and bury me deep down below,
Where the dingoes and
crows can't molest me,
In the shade where the culivars grow.