Oh, the wild black swans fly westward still,
While the sun goes down in glory-
And away o-er lonely plain and hill
Still runs the same old story:
The sheoaks sigh it all day long-
It is safe in the Big Scrub-s 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
O-er 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 man-s 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 man-s love sits weeping.
And the night comes grand to the Great Lone Land
O-er the grave where -Unknown- lies sleeping,
And the big white stars in their clusters blaze
O-er the Bush where -Unknown- lies sleeping.