The world around is sleeping, The stars are bright o'erhead, The shades of myalls weeping Upon the sward are spread; Among the gloomy pinetops The fitful breezes blow, And their murmurs seem the music Of a song of long ago; Soft, passionate, and wailing Is the tender old refrain - With a yearning unavailing - "Will he no come back again?" The camp-fire sparks are flying Up from the pine-log's glow, The wandering wind is sighing That ballad sweet and low; The drooping branches gleaming In the firelight, sway and stir; And the bushman's brain is dreaming Of the song she sang, and her. And the murmurs of the forest Ring home to heart and brain, As in the pine is chorused "Wi11 he no come back again?"