Where Feathertop frowns thro' the winter scud,
   Where Buffalo broods on high,
Dwells she, a lass of royal blood,
   And a sparkle lights her eye --
The clear, clean glint of the sun on snow,
   Where the small streams, singing down,
Into the golden Ovens flow,
   To decorate her town.

Wild was she on an olden day --
   And a wilful lass, forsooth,
When the rough, tough diggers came her way
   Ere she emerged from youth.-
From her river flats they dredged the gold -
   And laid sad waste to these,
While they drove in thousands from their fold
   The thrifty, scared Chinese.

Waxing in beauty, she has grown
   To a maid of wide renown;
For the wild, swift days have long since flown.
   Now, by her tree-girt town,
Where her plaited river murmuring flows
   Thro' sylvan scenes and rare,
A maiden clad in beauty goes
   To her hop-fields gleaming there.

Yet men still scheme to dredge these fields,
   And filch their loveliness,
All for the sake of bigger yields
   In gold, that count far less
Than the rare, rich harvests won today
   In calm security.
Leaving but ruin and decay
   To sad posterity.

"Den"
Herald, 5 April 1934, p6