A SINGER OF THE BUSH by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

There is waving of grass in the breeze
   And a song in the air,
And a murmur of myriad bees
   That toil everywhere.
There is scent in the blossom and bough,
   And the breath of the Spring
Is as soft as a kiss on a brow --
   And Spring-time I sing.


There is drought on the land, and the stock
   Tumble down in their tracks
Or follow -- a tottering flock --
   The scrub-cutter's axe.
While ever a creature survives
   The axes shall swing;
We are fighting with fate for their lives --
   And the combat I sing.