King Bundawaal

He sits and he dreams where his campfire gleams
An old man of tribal renown
So sad and alone in his true native home
A king without subjects or crown
His fears are addressed but the scars on his breast
Tell stories so brave without doubt
Now he's fighting his oar and he waits for the call
To go on that last walkabout

The skill of the chase once the pride of his race
Now fading from memory fast
Like the wild kangaroo and stately emu
To soon will be things of the past
There's a tale yet untold both tragic and old
A tale far too long to describe
How a merciless band with weapons in hand
Once slaughtered the pick of his tribe

So he gathered more braves from coastlands and caves
And trailed them through mountains of snow
And fell we are told like a wolf on the fold
And humble the pride of his foe
But the braves he once led are scattered and dead
They've melted away like the dew
And his wadi and shield were left on the field
The day his last battle was through

His lubras asleep where the supplejacks creep
Or the limbs of the banksia tree
And the funeral dirge was the sad endless urge
Of the waves of the cold restless sea
Then disturb not his dreams of bushlands and streams
And deeds in the chase and the fray
E're an alien race without pity or grace
Had trampled the pride of Kernai