Ye sons of industry, to you I belong, And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song, Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has won Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come Now the Land Bill, &c.
No more with our swags through the bush need we roam For to ask of another there to give us a home, Now the land is unfettered and we may reside In a home of our own by some clear waterside. In a home of our own, &c.
On some fertile spot which we may call our own, Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home. There industry will flourish and content will smile, While our children rejoicing will share in our toil. While our children, &c.
We will plant our garden and sow our own field, And eat from the fruits which industry will yield, And be independent, what we long for have strived, Though those that have ruled us the right long denied. Though those that have ruled us, &c.
Dark over the face of Nature sublime! Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime; The world a desert—no oasis green A man-loving soul on its surface had seen; Then mercy above a mandate sent forth An Eden to form—a refuge for worth. From the ocean it came, with halo so bright, Want, strife, and oppression were lost in its sight.
First isle of the sea—brightest gem of the earth In thee every virtue and joy shall have birth. A land of the just, the brave, and the free, Australia the happy, thou ever shalt be.
So earth in the flood no place for rest gave, At length a green isle arose from the wave; The dove o’er the waters the olive branch bore, To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
Australia thus shall be sounded by fame, And Europe shall echo the glorious name; The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d, Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.
Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine; ’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine; No sick’ning vapours are borne on thy air, But fragrance and melody twine sweetly there; Thy ever-green fields proclaim plenty and peace, If man doth his part, heaven sends the increase; No customs to fetter, no enemy near, Independence thy sons for ever must cheer.
We often hear men boast about the land which gave them birth, And each one thinks his native land the fairest spot on earth; In beauty, riches, power, no land can his surpass; To his, all other lands on earth cannot even hold a glass. Now, if other people have their boasts, then, say, why should not we, For we can drink our jovial toast and sing with three times three; For there’s not a country in the world where all that’s fair prevails As here it does in this our land, our sunny New South Wales.