We have no tales of other days,
No bygone history to tell;
Our tales are told where campfires blaze
At midnight, when the solemn hush
Of that vast wonderland, the Bush,
Hath laid on every heart its spell.
’Tis strange that in a land so strong.
So strong and bold in mighty youth,
We have no poet’s voice of truth
To sing for us a wondrous song.
So may it be, and he who sings
In accents hopeful, clear, and strong,
The glories that the future brings,
Shall sing, indeed, a wondrous song.





