Song Of The Cane-Cutters (1906)
We are sick of the town, where the smoke hangs low,
With its noise and din appalling,
So we'll pack our swags and northward go,
Where the ripening cane is calling.
There are long green fields on the Northern coast
Arrowing ready for falling,
On the river flats and the mountain sides,
Where the ripening cane is calling.
O it's swish, and crash, as the cane knife swings,
And the mill for more is bawling,
As it flings its smoke in sooty rings,
Where the ripening cane is calling.
And the lumbering punts to the rollers go,
As the waves of green are falling,
Up on tho Northern coast Ye-ho,
Where the ripening cane is calling.
Notes
From the NSW newspaper the Clarence and Richmond Examiner Saturday 9 June 1906, p. 11.