Out where the grey streams glide, br Sullen and deep and slow, br And the alligators slide br From the mud to the depths below br Or drift on the stream like a floating death, br Where the fever comes on the south wind's breath, br There is the buffalo. br Out of the big lagoons, br Where the Regia lilies float, br And the Nankin heron croons br With a deep ill-omened note, br In the ooze and the mud of the swamps below br Lazily wallows the buffalo, br Buried to nose and throat. br br From the hunter's gun he hides br In the jungle's dark and damp, br Where the slinking dingo glides br And the flying foxes camp; br Hanging like myriad fiends in line br Where the trailing creepers twist and twine br And the sun is a sluggish lamp. br br On the edge of the rolling plains br Where the coarse cane grasses swell, br Lush with the tropic rains br In the noontide's drowsy spell, br Slowly the buffalo grazes through br Where the brolgas dance, and the jabiru br Stands like a sentinel. br br All that the world can know br Of the wild and the weird is here, br Where the black men come and go br With their boomerang and spear, br And the wild duck darken the evening sky br As they fly to their nests in the reed beds high br When the tropic night is near.