A golden maid whose golden voice Calls to the northern lands, Of riches she has had her choice. Twin treasures to make men rejoice Came easy to her hands: The golden harvest of broad fields, Or that dark gift of sudden yields Won from her golden sands. But men have scorned her worthier pride In rich and fruitful soil; And, spreading desolation wide, Ranged all her verdant countryside To ravage and despoil. And now grey wastes of tortured earth Await the glory of rebirth Thro' nature's patient toil. She has the wish, she has the will To gather beauty round. Though gold's fierce lure stays with her still, She lives to plan and strive until Springs from this barren ground Earth's only treasure, scorned of yore, And smiling verdure clothes once more Full many a bare, bleak mound. She guards the gateway of the north The broad lands of the sun. Hospitably her hand goes forth, Eager to vindicate the worth Of happier tasks begun, And in gay gardens to express A newer urge to loveliness And kinder virtues won. A virile la**, in no wise strange, Of true Australian breed: Where drab days into sunlight charge Across the Great Dividing Range She scatters now the seed That shall bring yields a thousandfold When gardens count for more than gold And peace outvalues greed.