A DEATH on the dismal plain,
Where man never trod before;
Where bones lie bleached with the rain,
As shells on a surf-beaten shore,
A blanket in tatters around,
That the famishing dingo had rent;
A spur here and there on the ground,
And a billy well blackened and bent.
A boot that was worn to a shred,
A coat that a scare-crow would shame-
Memorials alone of the dead,
And tokens on earth of his name.
The death of the daring and bold,
Who venture thro' desert and wild;
It might be temptation of gold,
Or commerce, still here but a child.
But poets, while fancy has powers,
Their names shall exalt to the sky,
As winds bear the breath of the flowers
From vales where they languish and lie
Rear over them honors of stone,
In the spots where their vestiges lie;
Now hallowed to cottage and throne,
As a babe to a fond mother's eye.
The Queenslander, Saturday 19 June, 1869, p3.