While The Billy BoilsSearchAnother search for Leichhardt’s tomb,Though fifty years have fledSince Leichhardt vanished in the gloom,Our one Illustrious Dead!
But daring men from Britain’s shore,The fearless bulldog breed,Renew the fearful task once more,Determined to succeed.
Rash men, that know not what they seek,Will find their courage tried.For things have changed on Cooper’s CreekSince Ludwig Leichhardt died.
Along where Leichhardt journeyed slowAnd toiled and starved in vain;These rash excursionists must goPer Queensland railway train.
Out on those deserts lone and drearThe fierce Australian blackWill say—“You show it pint o’ beer,It show you Leichhardt track!”
And loud from every squatter’s doorEach pioneering swellWill hear the wild pianos roarThe strains of “Daisy Bell”.
The watchers in those forests vastWill see, at fall of night,Commercial travellers bounding pastAnd darting out of sight.
About their path a fearful fateWill hover always near.A dreadful scourge that lies in wait—The Longreach Horehound Beer!
And then, to crown this tale of guilt,They’ll find some scurvy knave,Regardless of their quest, has builtA pub on Leichhardt’s grave!
Ah, yes! Those British pioneersHad best at home abide,For things have changed in fifty yearsSince Ludwig Leichhardt died.