On an old homestead veranda, an old man sits at rest, in his kind grey eyes a wistful memory gleams.
And he always sits there nightly, and lives again the past, when the moon across the bushland beams.
And he hears the tractors working, in the fields of golden grain, the work he used to do with eight holes steam.
And his brown old hands they fumble, as though he feels the rains, when the moon across the bushland beams.
On the roadway in the distance, car lights come and go.
Where once the swagman tramped his lonely way, the teamster and the drover no longer shout good-day, as they did long ago along the castle ray.
For these old mates he thinks of, are relics from the past.
They have been there, they have been there, they have been there, they have been there, they have been there.
They have made their vow to progress, so it seems.
And he sees them all so clearly, as he sits out there at rest, when the moon across the bushland beams.
Then a sadness settles.
He knows all him, as he dreams of her at rest, sleeping deep the pine trees on the rise.
The years they spend together, to him were heaven blessed.
He remembers as the teardrops *** his eyes.
For in the early days they battled when the drought was on the land
When the seasons brought them doubts and many fears
But they battled on together ever onward hand in hand
With the courage of the early pioneers
Soon he'll be called to wander to the overland above
To join the one who once shared all his dreams
And I like to think he'll hear it as he sits out there at rest
When the moon across the bushland beams
And I like to think he'll hear it as he sits out there at rest