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Heaven’s gained an angel – and we have lost a son.
Heaven’s gained a dummy half – a ringer on the run.
Far too soon God’s called him, to play in Peter’s team.
Crushers have a hole now, where his gum-shield should beam.
Smiling still in heaven, the boy we love with all.
Tearing through the clouds he rushes, darting with the ball.
When it’s time to muster, Saint Pete will say: ‘Murdoch –
‘There’s no-one made of sterner stuff than you of farming stock’.
Will shall smile and answer: ‘I’ll help you out again.
‘But please turn on the water -‘the cattle need the rain’.
And when the soft breeze rushes through this valley on our face,
we’ll know that Will is calling down: ‘I’ve saved you all a space’.
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