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.

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