We spent a nice warm morning on the beach yesterday. The Aussie flags were out and on every thing from cars and faces, to bikinis (a personal favourite!). I had my meat pie and a beer (and even read some Banjo Paterson), after all it is Australia Day. I would rather be out bush somewhere though!
The city folk go to and fro, behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes blow, and never see the stars.
They never hear in blossomed trees, the music low and sweet,
Of wild birds making melodies, nor catch the little laughing breeze, that whispers in the wheat.
Our fathers came of roving stock, that could not fixed abide,
And we have followed field and flock, since e'er we learnt to ride.
By miner's camp and shearing shed, in land of heat and drought,
We followed where our fortunes led, with fortune always on ahead, and always further out.
The wind is in the barley grass, the wattles are in bloom,
The breezes greet us as they pass, with honey-sweet perfume.
The parakeets go screaming by, with flash of golden wing,
And from the swamp the wild ducks cry, their long-drawn note of revelry, rejoicing in the spring.
So throw the weary pen aside, and let the papers rest,
For we must saddle up and ride, towards the blue hill's breast.
And we must travel far and fast, across their rugged maze,
To find the Spring of Youth at last, and call back from the buried past, the old Australian ways.
From 'The Old Australian Ways' by Banjo Paterson (1902)