An Aboriginal Mother's Lament

Still farther would I fly, my child,
To make thee safer yet
From the unsparing white man,
With his dread hand murder-wet!

I'll bear thee on as I have borne
With stealthy steps wind-fleet,
But the dark night shrouds the forest,
And thorns are in my feet.

O moan not! I would give this braid —
Thy father's gift to me —
But for a single palmful
Of water now for thee.

Ah, spring not to his name — no more
To glad us may he come —
He is smouldering into ashes
Beneath the blasted gum;

All charred and blasted by the fire
The white man kindled there,
And fed with our slaughtered kindred
Till heaven-high went its glare!

And but for thee, I would their fire
Had eaten me as fast!
Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry
Yet lengthening up the blast!

But no — when his bound hands had signed
The way that we should fly,
On the roaring pyre flung bleeding —
I saw thy father die!

No more shall his loud tomahawk
Be plied to win our cheer,
Or the shining fish pools darken
Beneath his shadowing spear;

The fading tracks of his fleet foot
Shall guide not as before,
And the mountain-spirits mimic
His hunting call no more!

O moan not! I would give this braid —
Thy father's gift to me —
For but a single palmful
Of water now for thee.