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A Singer of the Bush

 There is waving of grass in the breeze
And a song in the air,
And a murmur of myriad bees
That toil everywhere.
There is scent in the blossom and bough, And the breath of the Spring Is as soft as a kiss on a brow -- And Spring-time I sing.
There is drought on the land, and the stock Tumble down in their tracks Or follow -- a tottering flock -- The scrub-cutter's axe.
While ever a creature survives The axes shall swing; We are fighting with fate for their lives -- And the combat I sing.

by Andrew Barton Paterson
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