He rests at the foot of a kopi hill
By the old Coolgardie track;
But whether his name was Claude, or Bill,
Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,”
There isn’t a legend at all to say—
And what does it signify, anyway?
There’s nought of funereal pomp or show—
Just a rough-hewn slab that states,
The leisurely chap that lies below
Had honestly paid his rates
Somewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four;
And then he came hither—to pay no more.
So he wearied soon of the storm and strife,
And he cast his swag aside,
When men were strong with the lust of life
And the world seemed opened wide.
Were the castles fair, that he built that day,
Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?
Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill,
Now the tale of his life is told?
Does a fear disturb his dreaming still,
Or a sigh strike through the mould?
Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait,
Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?
However it be, by the wind-swept hills
Of leisure he nothing lacks;
And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fills
For ever his earthly tracks.
—Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayer
In the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.