He sits and he dreams, where his campfire gleams, an old man of tribal renown.So sad and alone in his true native home, a king without subjects or crown.His fears are at rest, but the scars on his breast, tell stories so brave without doubt.Now his fighting is o'er, and he waits for the call, to go on that last walk about.The skill of the chase, once the call, to go on that last walk about.The pride of his race, now fading from memory fast.Like the wild kangaroo, and stately emu, too soon will be things of the past.There's a tale yet untold, both tragic and old.A tale far too long to disclose.How merciless fanned, with weapons in hand, one slaughtered the pick of his tribe.So he gathered more braves, from coastlands and caves.And trailed them through mountains of sand.And fell, we are told, like a wolf on the fold, and humbled the pride of his foe.But the braves he once led, are scattered and dead.They've melted away like the dew.And his waddy and shield.Were left on the field, the day his last battle was through.His lubra's asleep, where the supple jacks creep.All the limbs of the bank see a tree.And her funeral dirge, was the sad endless search.Of the waves of the...The cold restless sea.Then disturb not his dreams, of bushlands and streams.And deeds in the chase, and the prey.Ere an alien race, without pity or grace, had trampled the pride of Cannae.Subtitles by the Amara.org communitywww.amara.org