Sacred To The Memory Of Unknown
By Henry Lawson
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.