Where the blossom glows I follow, Sipping nectar as I go. Timbered hill and wooded hollow, Shore and scrub-land, these I know; Following the floral river Flowing down a scented land, Voyage I, where the Great Giver Strews His gifts on every hand. Where my honey-sipping cousins Fill the day with melody— Tho’ I count them in their dozens— Song, alas, is not for me. But, these meeker minstrels scorning, Rather am I prone to brag; To the chorus of the morning Shouting, “Quock! Up with the rag!” These my cousins, pert or gracious, Trim or tuneful, claim all man’s Admiration; I, pugnacious King of honey-eating clans, Ever bragging, ever brawling, Seem to flaunt the bully’s air; While my rough, discordant calling Matches ill my dainty fare. Yet, by wooded hill and hollow, He, the Giver, knows full well— As His bounteous way I follow— All a grateful heart would tell. Where the floral stream, o’erflowing Banksia boughs and wattle banks, Spills its beauty, song not knowing, Pour I forth my raucous thanks.