只有一根老柱子还立着——还很结实，但只有一根——挤奶、打烙印和屠宰的地方。后来的岁月带来了沮丧、忧虑和悲伤;但我们知道，在老布卡鲁的脚下，我们度过了快乐的时光。然后，黎明的曙光发现我们站在沟壑的顶端，劈开木头做篱笆，剥去树皮做小屋的屋顶。手和心的劳动加强;我们从不知道疲倦，即使当阴影在布卡鲁山脚下拉长。在围场下面的日子里，荒野是如何屈服于铁锹、镐头和锄头的，而我们却在辛苦地赢得田地。我们曾经玷污古铜色的手，直到它们变成最黑的颜色，在布卡鲁后面的沟壑里“燃烧”下来。当我们来的时候，小弟弟匆忙地把他坏掉的玩具扔下，对忙碌的妈妈喊道:“爸爸和孩子们来了!”奇怪的是，她居然能胜任她要做的工作; How she'd bustle round the table In the hut 'neath Bukaroo! When the cows were safely yarded, And the calves were in the pen, All the cares of day discarded, Closed we round the hut-fire then. Rang the roof with boyish laughter While the flames o'er-topped the flue; Happy days remembered after -- Far away from Bukaroo. But the years were full of changes, And a sorrow found us there; For our home amid the ranges Was not safe from searching Care. On he came, a silent creeper; And another mountain threw O'er our lives a shadow deeper Than the shade of Bukaroo. All the farm is disappearing; For the home has vanished now, Mountain scrub has choked the clearing, Hid the furrows of the plough. Nearer still the scrub is creeping Where the little garden grew; And the old folks now are sleeping At the foot of Bukaroo.