Burl Ives — The Dying Stockman

A strapping young stockman lay dying His saddle supporting his head His two mates around him were crying As he rose on his pillow and said Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket And bury me deep down below Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me In the shade where the coolibahs grow Oh had I the flight of the bronzewing Far over the plains would I fly Straight to the land of my childhood And there I would lay down and die Then cut down a couple of saplings Place one at my head and my toe Carve on them cross stockwhip and saddle To show there's a stockman below Hark there's the wail of a dingo Watchful and weird--I must go For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman From the gloom of the scrub down below There's tea in the battered old billy Place the pannikins out in a row And we'll drink to the next merry meeting In the place where all good fellows go And oft in the shades of the twilight When the soft winds are whispering low And the darkening shadows are falling Sometimes think of the stockman below