The Promised Site

Members of the Canberra Vigilance Committee expect a vote of all a million pounds for construction work during the ensuing twelve months.

I have heard them speak of a promised
site:
Mother, oh where in this country
bright,
Is it where, in some safe-harbored
town
Tall ships from the seven seas come
down?
Not there, not there, my child,

Is it in some beauteous district where
The fattened cattle sniff the air
Scented with fruits and new-mown hay,
Where wheat grows half a foot a day?
Not there, not there, my child,

Is it somewhere off in the far Outback,
Where the country sadly knows the
lack
Of population some far place
That calls for men of the Great White
Race?
Not there, not there, my child,

Is it in some bosky, sylvan dale,
Where the air’s like wine—or, maybe,
ale;
Where tall ferns wave and gum-trees
grow—
Some spot where the joyous tourists
go?
Not there, not there, my child,

Is it where sheep bleat in pasture
green,
And a kind sun smiles upon the scene—
Where young foals skip and lambkins
play,
And shearers argue o’er their pay?
Not there, not there, my child,

Then, mother, where the dickens is
This splendid city to be riz.
Where legislators want to go.
To talk of things they do not know?
Listen to me, my child.

In a dreary spot in New South Wales,
Where frequently the season fails,
Where the thirsty Cotter sometimes
rolls,
But in oft a chain of water-holes.
There would they spend on projects
wild
A half-a-million pounds, my child.
There, where the rainfall falleth low
And the rivers oft refuse to flow,
There would our legislators go
To talk of things they do not know.
Were rabbits have destroyed the
scene
By eating everything that’s green.
It is there, it is there , my child.