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Buffalo Country

 Out where the grey streams glide, 
Sullen and deep and slow, 
And the alligators slide 
From the mud to the depths below 
Or drift on the stream like a floating death, 
Where the fever comes on the south wind's breath, 
There is the buffalo.
Out of the big lagoons, Where the Regia lilies float, And the Nankin heron croons With a deep ill-omened note, In the ooze and the mud of the swamps below Lazily wallows the buffalo, Buried to nose and throat.
From the hunter's gun he hides In the jungle's dark and damp, Where the slinking dingo glides And the flying foxes camp; Hanging like myriad fiends in line Where the trailing creepers twist and twine And the sun is a sluggish lamp.
On the edge of the rolling plains Where the coarse cane grasses swell, Lush with the tropic rains In the noontide's drowsy spell, Slowly the buffalo grazes through Where the brolgas dance, and the jabiru Stands like a sentinel.
All that the world can know Of the wild and the weird is here, Where the black men come and go With their boomerang and spear, And the wild duck darken the evening sky As they fly to their nests in the reed beds high When the tropic night is near.

Poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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