Where Feathertop frowns thro' the winter scud, Where Buffalo broods on high, Dwells she, a la** of royal blood, And a sparkle lights her eye The clear, clean glint of the sun on snow, Where the small streams, singing down, Into the golden Ovens flow, To decorate her town. Wild was she on an olden day And a wilful la**, forsooth, When the rough, tough diggers came her way Ere she emerged from youth. From her river flats they dredged the gold And laid sad waste to these, While they drove in thousands from their fold The thrifty, scared Chinese. Waxing in beauty, she has grown To a maid of wide renown; For the wild, swift days have long since flown. Now, by her tree-girt town, Where her plaited river murmuring flows Thro' sylvan scenes and rare, A maiden clad in beauty goes To her hop-fields gleaming there. Yet men still scheme to dredge these fields, And filch their loveliness, All for the sake of bigger yields In gold, that count far less Than the rare, rich harvests won today In calm security. Leaving but ruin and decay To sad posterity.