I stood today at Stringybark Creek Where those fatal shots were fired A place of haunting beauty Where three policemen died. I wished for a fleeting moment That I saw what happened there Back in late October Of the 1878th year. Chorus: Sunlight pierced the tree line Old gums kept changing hue As if the oils of McCubbin Long ago painted this view. Afternoon shadows fingered Across this lonely, mystery land Entreating me to wonder And try to understand. Twists of bark were scattered Ground moist from recent, welcome rain And soon the sombre vespers Of night birds sweet refrain. And when those shots resounded Bodies lying on the bushland floor They crossed a line and forever Their name would be outlaw. ©Jim Low
Read Jim’s article about Stringybark Creek