Out on the wastes of the Never Never-- That's where the dead men lie!There where the heat-waves dance for ever-- That's where the dead men lie!That's where the Earth's loved sons are keepingEndless tryst: not the west wind sweepingFeverish pinions can wake their sleeping-- Out where the dead men lie!
Where brown Summer and Death have mated-- That's where the dead men lie!Loving with fiery lust unsated-- That's where the dead men lie!Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitelyUnder the saltbush sparkling brightly;Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly-- That's where the dead men lie!
Deep in the yellow, flowing river-- That's where the dead men lie!Under the banks where the shadows quiver-- That's where the dead men lie!Where the platypus twists and doubles,Leaving a train of tiny bubbles;Rid at last of their earthly troubles-- That's where the dead men lie!
East and backward pale faces turning-- That's how the dead men lie!Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning-- That's how the dead men lie!Oft in the fragrant hush of nooningHearing again their mothers' crooning,Wrapt for aye in a dreamful swooning-- That's how the dead men lie!
Only the hand of Night can free them-- That's when the dead men fly!Only the frightened cattle see them-- See the dead men go by!Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,Bidding the stockman know no leisure--That's when the dead men take their pleasure! That's when the dead men fly!
Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover: He sees the dead pass by;Hearing them call to their friends--the plover, Hearing the dead men cry;Seeing their faces stealing, stealing,Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing,Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling Round where the cattle lie!
Strangled by thirst and fierce privation-- That's how the dead men die!Out on Moneygrub's farthest station-- That's how the dead men die!Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow;Some mounds cared for, some left fallow;Some deep down, yet others shallow; Some having but the sky.
Moneygrub, as he sips his claret, Looks with complacent eyeDown at his watch-chain, eighteen-carat-- There, in his club, hard by:Recks not that every link is stamped withNames of the men whose limbs are cramped withToo long lying in grave mould, camped with Death where the dead men lie.
