And the fields and the flowers of his native land.
And o'er his face crept a tender smile
As he dreamt of one who was dearer still,
And the stately home in his native isle.
Ah! if dreams could only their vows fullfil!
To the old log hut by the lonely creek
With naked sword came the Angel of Death;
Pale grew the sleeper's hectic cheek
As he felt the touch of that icy breath.
In the lonely bush in a far-off land,
Where the wattles bloom and the brigalows wave;
Laid to his rest by a stranger's hand,
The exile sleeps in his nameless grave.
George Essex Evans (1891)