He lies here. See the bush
All grey through grief for him;
Hoar scrub-like ashes cast-
Sprinkles the valley grim.
The saltbush is his shroud,
Wide skies his only pall,
And “in memoriam”,
A thousand stamp-heads fall.
Gold-lured to death-and yet
He would have had it so.
Say mass, sing requiem
With the grey bush-and go.
Quietly he had found
Here in the Golden West,
The long-sought-for at last,
An El Dorado blest.
(Francis William Ophel)