Where the mountain ash is waving by the giant messmate tree—
'Spite the toiling, 'spite the slaving—that's the place where I would be.
I can mock your traffic's roaring when the winds sweep through the forest;
When the stars shine o'er the tree-tops I can scorn your glaring lights.
You may keep your slum and alley—
When the sun sets in the valley
There's a scene I wouldn't barter for a wealth of city sights.
Tell me not of fame and fortune won through striving with your fellows,
Power of purse, and pride in scheming: these are things that I despise.
Give me health and strength to labour;
Give me peace and love of neighbour;
Give me joys that strong men cherish where the timber ranges rise.
When the bushland dawn comes creeping, and the tree trunks catch the sun;
When the forest wakes from sleeping, and the day-long toil's begun,
