Oh, where do you sleep my lost German friend,
where do your bleached bones lie?
Believe me good Sir, we did search for you,
we gave it our best try.
You woke from its sleep this giant of a land
by treading the wild unknown,
displaying true grit and resourcefulness,
you're known for that alone.
From Brisbane you trekked to Port Essington,
a journey of courage no doubt.
You gambled with fate, though played out a trump,
a feat still talked about.
By ship you then sailed to Sydney down south,
where you were lionised.
Your name it was on almost every lip,
your fame unequalised.
The blood in your veins, though, hungered to
that never-never, land
and set on your way to wake her some more,
though fate laid down her hand.
The last written words you penned to this world
came from McPherson's run,
north-west of the town called Roma, Sir,
then near oblivion.
Though men talk about you to this very day
around the campfire’s glow,
your name is embedded in mystery, Sir,
"Just where did Leichhhardt go?"
"Oh, where do you sleep my lost German friend",
is asked by city push
and all that the country folk can reply,
is "Leichhardt”s in the bush."
The Cecil Plains Homestead, on the Darling Downs, Queensland, held a special day to
commemorate the explorer Ludwig Leichhardt and in conjunction with the day they held a
written competition with the subject- theme being, “Leichhardt in the Bush”. The above
poem took out 1st place.