A bushman got lost in a scrub in the North,
And all the long morning the searchers went forth.
They swore at the rain that had washed out the tracks
And left not a trace for the eyes of the blacks;
But, trusting the signs that the blackfellow knows,
A quiet old darkey stood watching the crows.

The solemn old blackman stood silently by;
He stood like a statue, his face to the sky.
Black Billy was out of the bearings-we thought-
If he looked above for the bushman we sought;
For we rather suspected the spirit would go
In-well, quite another direction, you know.

Most bushmen on solemn occasions will joke,
And unto Black Bill -twas the super who spoke.
He asked, as he cocked his red nose in the air-
-You think it old Harrison sit down up there?�
-I-m watching the crows. Where the white man lies dead
The crows will fly over,� the blackfellow said.

The blackfellow died, and long years have gone round
Since the day when old Harrison-s body was found;
But still do I see, in my vision at night,
A faint figure come like a shadow in sight,
And nearer and nearer it comes till it grows
Like the form of that blackfellow--watching the crows�.