Tell me not in future numbers
That our thought becomes inane,
That our metre halts and lumbers,
When the Wattle blooms again.
Time may change this loyal jernal
From religious to profane;
But a rhythmic law eternal
Makes the Wattle bloom again.
Trust no Flossie, howe'er pleasant;
Sweeps are treacherous; totes are vain;
Banks and scrip are evanescent --
But the Wattle blooms again.
Cultivate no fair ideal;
Own no country seat in Spain;
All these things must go to Sheol,
Whilst the Wattle blooms again.
This, you see, austere and lonely,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
One great fact is certain only --
That the Wattle blooms again.
First published in The Bulletin, 27 August 1898
