A bushman got lost in a scrub in the North, <br />And all the long morning the searchers went forth. <br />They swore at the rain that had washed out the tracks <br />And left not a trace for the eyes of the blacks; <br />But, trusting the signs that the blackfellow knows, <br />A quiet old darkey stood watching the crows. <br /> <br />The solemn old blackman stood silently by; <br />He stood like a statue, his face to the sky. <br />Black Billy was out of the bearings—we thought— <br />If he looked above for the bushman we sought; <br />For we rather suspected the spirit would go <br />In—well, quite another direction, you know. <br /> <br />Most bushmen on solemn occasions will joke, <br />And unto Black Bill ’twas the super who spoke. <br />He asked, as he cocked his red nose in the air— <br />“You think it old Harrison sit down up there?” <br />“I’m watching the crows. Where the white man lies dead <br />The crows will fly over,” the blackfellow said. <br /> <br />The blackfellow died, and long years have gone round <br />Since the day when old Harrison’s body was found; <br />But still do I see, in my vision at night, <br />A faint figure come like a shadow in sight, <br />And nearer and nearer it comes till it grows <br />Like the form of that blackfellow—“watching the crows”.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/watching-the-crows/
