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Freedom on the Wallaby
By Henry Lawson
Our fathers toiled for bitter bread
While idlers thrived beside them;
But food to eat and clothes to wear
Their native land denied them.
They left their native land in spite
Of royalties’ regalia,
And so they came, or if they stole
Were sent out to Australia.
They struggled hard to make a home,
Hard grubbing ’twas and clearing.
They weren’t troubled much with toffs
When they were pioneering;
And now that we have made the land
A garden full of promise,
Old greed must crook his dirty hand
And come to take it from us.
But Freedom’s on the Wallaby,
She’ll knock the tyrants silly,
She’s going to light another fire
And boil another billy.
We’ll make the tyrants feel the sting
Of those that they would throttle;
They needn’t say the fault is ours
If blood should stain the wattle.
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