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.