Across the veld the homeless wind goes wailing,
O'er leagues of heath and grassland wild and brown,
And the broad pale band of saffron sky is paling
Where the sun went down.
He is lying still and silent in the gloaming,
The hunter of the waste, whose race is run:
He has come unto the end of all men's roaming,
And the last trek's done.

He has looked on many things, in many places:
From earth and open sky he gleaned his lore:
He has trod with Death in many chases;
He will ne'er hunt more.
For the eyes are closed that used to glance so keenly,
And stiff and cold's the hand that held the gun,
And the lion now may roam his realm serenely,
For the last trek's done.

Give his body to the kindly earth's safe-keeping:
He sleeps so sound he will not hark nor heed,
Tho' the lion wake the echoes where he's sleeping,
Where the springbuck feed.
In the lands he loved so let him rest profoundly,
Unheeding beating rain and blinding sun,
For he who loved to roam will sleep full soundly
Now the last trek's done.