}
};






A black-sheep, from England, who worked on the run -
Riding where the stockmen ride -
He sat by the hut when the day-s work was done -
Lone huts where the black sheep bide.
-I-m tired of my life!� to his lone self said he,
-My girl and my country are both done with me!�

-I-m tired of my life!� to the wide scrubs said he -
-My girl and my country are long done with me!�

He took from a packet a portrait and curl -
Such things as the exiles keep -
And sadly he gazed at the face of the girl -
Lost girl of a lost black-sheep.
-I-ll go where there-s fighting and die there!� said he;
-My girl and my country are well rid of me.

-I-ll go where there-s fighting and die there,� said he;
-For heart-break and country that-s well rid of me!�

He rode with a thousand, he rode with the best -
Riding as bushmen ride -
Who-d ridden alone on the wastes of the West -
Wide wastes where the drought-fiends bide,
They rode as they-d ride to an up-country ball,
And the laugh of the black-sheep was lightest of all!

The road was a shambles, the hill was a hell -
Red rosed where the reckless ride -
And he with the foremost lay torn by a shell -
(Die hard where your father died!)
-the death of a rebel!� he laughed as he groaned -
-for the land that adoptee - the land that disowned!�

the death of a black-sheep! - they laugh as they groan -
for the lands that adopt and the lands that disown!