A Ballade of Home

LET others prate of Greece and Rome, And towns where they may never be, The muse should wander nearer home. My country is enough for me; Her wooded hills that watch the sea, Her inland miles of springing corn, At Macedon or Barrakee— I love the land where I was born. On Juliet smile the autumn stars And windswept plains by Winchelsea, In summer on their sandy bars Her rivers loiter languidly. Where singing waters fall and flee The gullied ranges dip to Lorne With musk and gum and myrtle tree— I love the land where I was born. The wild things in her tangles move As blithe as fauns in Sicily, Where Melbourne rises roof by roof The tall ships serve her at the quay, And hers the yoke of liberty On stalwart shoulders lightly worn, Where thought and speech and prayer are free— I love the land where I was born. Princes and lords of high degree, Smile, and we fling you scorn for scorn, In hope and faith and memory I love the land where I was born.