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Beneath a far Australian sky an Irish soldier lay,
The sands from out his glass of life were ebbing fast away;
The friends that stood around his bed his eyes could scarcely see,
Still his thoughts would soon be all at rest on far across the sea.
In spirit once again he stood upon his native sod,
When a man and when a boy his foot had lightly trod;
When in fancy he could feel upon his brow the mountain air,
And from his pale and haggard cheek sent forth an exile prayer:
"Oh, lay me on the hillside with my face toward the west,
Toward that sacred island, the land that I love best;
Let a bunch of shamrocks green be planted o'er my grave,
My dying prayer - may God bless the island of the brave!"
