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.