Lilydale

Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
   Where runs the White Horse Road.
Three slopes dip down into the vale --
The placid vale of Lilydale,
   That somnolent abode
Of dreams that compass olden days,
Of tranquil life and easy ways,
   Where transient beauty tints her trees
   With golden Autumn's harmonies.

For Lilydale is now a dame
   Unhurried and content.
Traditions that attend her name
Serve her from all she needs of fame,
   Who scorns the brandishment
Of modern haste and modern show.
And, as the speeding motors go
   Down thro' her street, to hasten by,
   She marks them with a sleepy sigh.

Amid her grazing kine she goes --
   The "milkers", "stores" and "fats."
A cow she venerates, and knows
How well to hoard the wealth that flows
   From her rich river flats
One passion lures her from her course;
Her great love for a likely horse.
   Tempting to revels now and then
   With her twin dreamer, Yarra Glen.

Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
   Three slopes dip down below.
And every hill, and every vale
Tell once more the olden tale
   Of days when life moved slow;
Save when the dashing fours-in-hand
Came clattering to this new-found land,
   And wakened this bucolic spot
   To life's high fever -- long forgot.