Though poor and in trouble I wander alone, <br />With rebel cockade in my hat, <br />Though friends may desert me, and kindred disown, <br />My country will never do that! <br />You may sing of the Shamrock, the Thistle, the rose, <br />Or the three in a bunch, if you will; <br />But I know of a country that gathered all those, <br />And I love the great land where the Waratah grows. <br />And the Wattle-bough blooms on the hill. <br /> <br />Australia! Australia! so fair to behold- <br />While the blue sky is arching above; <br />The stranger should never have need to be told, <br />That the Wattle-bloom means that her heart is of gold. <br />And the Waratah's red with her love. <br /> <br />Australia! Australia! most beautiful name, <br />Most kindly and bountiful land; <br />I would die every death that might save her from shame, <br />If a black cloud should rise on the stand; <br />But whatever the quarrel, whoever her foes, <br />Let them come! Let them come when they will! <br />Though the struggle be grim, 'tis Australia that knows <br />That her children shall fight while the Waratah grows, <br />And the Wattle blooms out on the hill. <br /><br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waratah-and-wattle/
