A man was Peter Myloh, strong-browed and black of face,
Australian Aboriginal, son of a dark doomed race.
And even I, an urchin then, read grief in his soft eye
Deep grief, that came with knowledge for a people who must die,
For he was 'educated.' But he came of no meek race
Whining, 'Gibbit tickpen', mister,' with a shamed averted face.
And he was proud, quick with a blow for some fool's sneering slight,
And how I grinned and hugged myself. For, lordy! Could he fight!
Old Connors took him as a boy from some wild Murray tribe
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem