So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't plenty beer, And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all.

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