They say our wealth lies wasted,
Our weal has ceased to be;
I doubt it much this morning,
Beneath my Wattle Tree!
Our land has still her sunshine,
Her blossom-scented breeze,
Her wheatfields and her goldfields,
Her "Heritage of Trees."
A murmur of contentment,
Comes from the cooing dove;
The Wattle-gold's about me,
And Heaven is still above!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 July 1932
Author reference site: Austlit
See also.
Our weal has ceased to be;
I doubt it much this morning,
Beneath my Wattle Tree!
Our land has still her sunshine,
Her blossom-scented breeze,
Her wheatfields and her goldfields,
Her "Heritage of Trees."
A murmur of contentment,
Comes from the cooing dove;
The Wattle-gold's about me,
And Heaven is still above!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 July 1932
Author reference site: Austlit
See also.
