Sacred To The Memory Of Unknown

Oh, the wild black swans fly westward still,     While the sun goes down in glory,     And away oer lonely plain and hill     Still runs the same old story:     The sheoaks sigh it all day long,     It is safe in the Big Scrubs keeping,     Tis the butcher-birds and the bell-birds song     In the gum where Unknown lies sleeping,     (It is heard in the chat of the soldier-birds     Oer the grave where Unknown lies sleeping).     Ah! the Bushmen knew not his name or land,     Or the shame that had sent him here,     But the Bushmen knew by the dead mans hand     That his past life lay not near.     The law of the land might have watched for him,     Or a sweetheart, wife, or mother;     But they bared their heads, and their eyes were dim,     For he might have been a brother!     (Ah! the death he died brought him near to them,     For he might have been a brother.)     Oh, the wild black swans to the westward fade,     And the sunset burns to ashes,     And three times bright on an eastern range     The light of a big star flashes,     Like a signal sent to a distant strand     Where a dead mans love sits weeping.     And the night comes grand to the Great Lone Land     Oer the grave where Unknown lies sleeping,     And the big white stars in their clusters blaze     Oer the Bush where Unknown lies sleeping.