We drove across a spring-clad land,
   A band of devotees,
And marvelled at the shading of
   The soft green in the trees.
He sat apart and smoked his pipe
   In gloomy reverie,
And growled that "in the bloomin' bush
   There's nothin' much to see."

We raved about the fleecy clouds,
   And felt ecstatic thrills,
What time we viewed the colour in
   The opalescent hills.
We pointed out the waving scrub;
   He grumbled low and deep:
"The hills are bloomin' barren, and
   The scrub won't carry sheep."

At length we reached the wayside inn
   And respite sought inside;
'Twas then his eloquence burst forth,
   And would not be denied.
With flashing eye and soul aflame,
   He praised in accents clear
The transcendental beauty of
   The amber in his beer.

"C.J.D."
The Gadfly, 15 May 1907, p1221