The world around is sleeping, br The stars are bright o'erhead, br The shades of myalls weeping br Upon the sward are spread; br Among the gloomy pinetops br The fitful breezes blow, br And their murmurs seem the music br Of a song of long ago; br Soft, passionate, and wailing br Is the tender old refrain - br With a yearning unavailing - br "Will he no come back again?" br br The camp-fire sparks are flying br Up from the pine-log's glow, br The wandering wind is sighing br That ballad sweet and low; br The drooping branches gleaming br In the firelight, sway and stir; br And the bushman's brain is dreaming br Of the song she sang, and her.