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Poor Feller Me!

Edward S. Sorenson

Under the cypress
    I made me a fire,
And there came an abo.
    In scanty attire
And heavy of heart with
    A lifelong desire.

“Baal got it towri,”
    Thus mumbled he,
“Can’t find ‘em myalls,
    Poor feller me!”

He saw in the embers,
    The flame and the smoke
The forms of armed legions
    From coverts that broke
For the battue and foray
    When bushlands awoke.

His boomerang by him,
    His nulla and spears,
The symbols of hunters,
    Of long-vanished years,
That made his eyes sparkle,
    Yet dimmed them with tears.

“Baal find it ‘possum
    In coolabah-tree,
Baal got it lubra,
    Poor feller me!”

The howl of the dingo
    From far up the hill,
The cry of the curlew,
    Long, lonely and shrill,
Seemed a dirge for his kinsmen
    Whose voices were still.

From far-away ages,
    From battle and chase,
The cries seemed to echo
    Through deserts of space,
And sound to the dreamer
    The knell of his race.

And lowly he chanted
    The weird songs they sang
By the fires in the shadow
    Of wild Tallarang,
And cried as the memory
    Stabbed with a pang

“All about Blackman,
    Towri and tree,
All gone for ever,
    Poor feller me!”

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