The city folks go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars,
they never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars ;
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and sweet
Of wild birds making melodies.
Nor catch the little laughing breeze
That whispers in the wheat.
The wind is in the barley-grass,
The wattles are in bloom ;
The breezes greet us as they pass
With honey-sweet perfume ;
The parakeets go screaming by
With flash of golden wing.
And from the swamps the wild-ducks cry
Their, long-drawn note of revelry,
Rejoicing at the Spring.
So throw the the weary pen aside
And let the papers rest.
For we must saddle up and ride
Towards the blue hill's breast:
And we must travel far and fast
Across their rugged maze,
To find the Spring of Youth at last,
And call back from the buried past
The old Australian ways.
A. B. Paterson.
Notes
From the South Autralian Newspaper The Murray Pioneer and Australian River Record 20 Jun 1930 p. 8.