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Far From Home
The Death of Wills, the Explorer

Edward S. Sorenson

In the silent bush, enfeebled and worn,
With pangs of thirst and hunger torn,
There lay a traveller lone aud lorn,
                 Far, far, from home.

His only food the unsavoury seed
The nomads taught him, when in need,
To gather from a native weed,
                 Far, far, from home.

Small succour did it bring to him;
Death caught him in his clutches grim,
And slowly his kind eyes grew dim,
                 Far, far, from home.

All through the lone, wide wilderness,
The wind blew free; his sore distress
It failed to soothe with its caress,
                 Far, far, from home.

No friend was by, no one was near,
His softly whispered words to hear—
A message of love for some one dear,
                 Far, far, from home.

Alone he breathed his dying sigh;
When sped his soul to the skies on high,
His sire knew not his end was nigh.
                 Far, far, from home.

Thus for Australia, for his Queen,
This hero died where none had been;
And so we keep his memory green
                 Far from his home.

Edward S. Sorenson, Casino

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