No farmer now, the stock long gone

There's not much left to see.

Just a pile of stone and roofing iron

Where the farmhouse used to be.

An ancient, broken windmill

It makes no mournful sound

It's many years since last it turned

Above this arid ground.

And underneath an old gum tree

There's a rusty iron bed

And 4 small gravestones mark the place

The farmer laid his dead.

Here, on this windswept red dirt plain.

Beneath the cloudless sky

The ghosts of battlers long ago

Still make their plaintive cry.