Push, and crowd, and jostle! jostle, and crowd, and push!
O to be out of the turmoil away in the quiet Bush!
Away from the roar and rattle, away from the dirt and din,
The beggar’s whine, and the pious fraud, sorrow, disease, and sin.
O voice of the Bush that is calling, and calling again, again!
O many-toned voice of the Bush! must you call to me always in vain?
Shall I never be able to follow to the land that is far and fair?
O who could bide in the city, who was born and bred out there?
II
There’s storm coming up the valley, there’s rain on the distant ranges,
And ever the wind in the gum-trees runs its gamut of mournful changes,
All in a minor key; and there’s gloom on earth, and in sky,
And of all things dismal, I think there is nothing more dismal than I!
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