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.