Saltbush Bill, J. P.

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.