King Bundawaal
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He sits and he dreams
Where his camp-fire gleams
An old man of tribal renown
So sad and alone
In his true native home
A king without subjects or crown
His spears are at rest
But the scars on his breast
Tell stories so brave without doubt
Now his fighting is o'er
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
Too 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 humbled the pride of his foe
But the braves he once led
Are scattered and dead
They've melted away like the dew
And his waddy and shield
Were left on the field
The day his last battle was through
His loo'br is asleep
Where the supple-jacks creep
O'er the limbs of the banksia tree
And her funeral dirge
Was the sad endless surge
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
Ere an alien race
Without pity or grace
Have trampled the pride of Kurnai