Was killed in the flaming mulga,
A-yarding a bald-faced steer.

They say as he’s gone to heaven,
And shook off all worldly cares
But I can’t sight Bill in a halo
Set up on three blinded hairs.

In heaven! what next I wonder,
For strike me pink and blue,
If I see whatever in thunder
They’ll find for Bill to do.

He’d never make one of them angels,
With faces as white as chalk,
All wool to the toes like hoggets,
And wings like an eagle-hawk.

He couldn’t ’arp for apples,
His voice had tones as jarred,
And he’d no more ear than a bald-faced steer,
Or calves in a branding yard.

He could sit on a bucking brumbie
Like a nob in an easy chair,
And chop his name with a greenhide fall
On the flank of a flying steer.

He could show them saints in glory
The way that a fall should drop,