Never allow the thoughtless to delcare That we have no tradition here! - Mary Gilmore

We are the sons of Australia,
Of the men who fashioned the land,
We are the sons of the women
Who walked with them, hand in hand;
And we swear by the dead who bore us,
By the heroes who blazed the trail,
No foe shall gather our harvest,
Or sit on our stockyard rail.

It’s gettin’ bits o’ posies, ’N’ feelin’ mighty good;
A-thrillin’ ’cause she loves you, An’ wond’rin’ why she should;
[...]
As if there’s nothin’ mattered, As if the world was good,
As if the Lord was lookin’, An’ sort o’ understood.

I have no thunder in my words, Thunder is much too high;
But I can see as far as birds, And feel the wind go by.And I can follow through the grass The darling-breasted quail;
For, though things great in splendour mass, I choose the lesser grail.