A Singer of the Bush
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.
