Better it is that they ne'er came back -- Changes and chances are quickly rung; Now the old homestead is gone to rack, Green is the grass on the well-worn track Down by the gate where the roses clung.
Gone is the garden they kept with care; Left to decay at its own sweet will, Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, Cattle and sheep where the roses were, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Where are the children that throve and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die.
One in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
One is away on the roving quest, Seeking his share of the golden spoil, Out in the wastes of the trackless west, Wandering ever he gives the best Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.
What of the parents? That unkept mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as on holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Born of a thoroughbred English race, Well proportioned and closely knit, Neat of figure and handsome face, Always ready and always fit, Hard and wiry of limb and thew, That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.
One of the sons of the good old land -- Many a year since his like was known; Never a game but he took command, Never a sport but he held his own; Gained at his college a triple blue -- Good as they make them was Jim Carew.
Came to grief -- was it card or horse? Nobody asked and nobody cared; Ship him away to the bush of course, Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared; Only of women a tolerable few Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew.
Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp, Sitting his horse with an easy grace; But the reckless living has left its stamp In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, And a harder look in those eyes of blue: Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew.
Billy the Lasher was out for gore -- Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, When he opened out with a hungry roar On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair; But his wife was wise if his face she knew By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew.