Thirty long miles to the nearest town,
Mary! Pity women.
The way is long and the bush is lone,
I'll start to-night by the rising moon,
She lies so still and she makes no moan,
Mary! Pity women.

The baby's lips from her breast unclung,
Mary! Pity women.
As she brushed the bush where the black snake hung,
And caught the gleam of his red forked tongue
As he rose in wrath, with coil unwrung,
Mary! Pity women.

A wild mob challenged her on the track,
Mary! Pity women.
As on she walked through the bellowing wrack,
And never a look or step gave back,
Mary! Pity women.

The sun went down and its rays were red,
Mary! Pity women.
A raucous bird as she helpward sped
Came swooping down from a branch o'er head,
And beat her brain with a beak of lead,
Mary! Pity women.

“Oh, mother,” she cried, “my baby's dead,”
Mary! Pity women.
“Mother of Heaven,” the old wife said,
See how her way-worn feet have bled,
A wife bereaved and a short year wed,
Mary! Pity women.