The world around is sleeping, 
 The stars are bright o'erhead, 
The shades of myalls weeping 
 Upon the sward are spread; 
Among the gloomy pinetops 
 The fitful breezes blow, 
And their murmurs seem the music 
 Of a song of long ago; 
Soft, passionate, and wailing 
 Is the tender old refrain - 
With a yearning unavailing - 
 "Will he no come back again?" 

The camp-fire sparks are flying 
 Up from the pine-log's glow, 
The wandering wind is sighing 
 That ballad sweet and low; 
The drooping branches gleaming 
 In the firelight, sway and stir; 
And the bushman's brain is dreaming 
 Of the song she sang, and her. 
And the murmurs of the forest 
 Ring home to heart and brain, 
As in the pine is chorused 
 "Wi11 he no come back again?"