Sons of the mountains of Scotland, <br />Welshmen of coomb and defile, <br />Breed of the moors of England, <br />Children of Erin's green isle, <br />We stand four square to the tempest, <br />Whatever the battering hail- <br />No foe shall gather our harvest, <br />Or sit on our stockyard rail. <br /> <br />Our women shall walk in honour, <br />Our children shall know no chain, <br />This land, that is ours forever, <br />The invader shall strike at in vain. <br />Anzac!...Tobruk!...and Kokoda!... <br />Could ever the old blood fail? <br />No foe shall gather our harvest, <br />Or sit on our stockyard rail. <br /> <br />So hail-fellow-met we muster, <br />And hail-fellow-met fall in, <br />Wherever the guns may thunder, <br />Or the rocketing air-mail spin! <br />Born of the soil and the whirlwind, <br />Though death itself be the gale- <br />No foe shall gather our harvest <br />Or sit on our stockyard rail. <br /> <br />We are the sons of Australia, <br />of the men who fashioned the land; <br />We are the sons of the women <br />Who walked with them hand in hand; <br />And we swear by the dead who bore us, <br />By the heroes who blazed the trail, <br />No foe shall gather our harvest, <br />Or sit on our stockyard rail.<br /><br />Dame Mary Gilmore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/no-foe-shall-gather-our-harvest/
