Be the stockman or no, to my story give ear
Alas! For poor Jack, no more we shall hear
The crack of his whip, or his steeds lively trot
His clear "Go ahead" or his jingling quart pot
For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed
Where tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed
While drafting one day, he was horned by a cow.
"Alas!", cried poor Jack. "It's all up with me now!
For never will I my old saddle regains,
Or bound like a wallaby over the plain."
For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed
Where tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed
His whip it is silent, his dogs, they do mourn
His horse looks in vain for his master's return.
No friends to remember him, unheeded he dies.
Save Australia's Aborigines none knows where he lies
For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed
Where tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed
Now whenever you go out, on some future day
For after the wild mob, you happen to stray
Ride softly the creek beds where where wattles do shed
For it should be the spot where poor Jack's bones are laid
For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed
Where tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed