Peace to thee, Mother of Empires: Austral, thy younger child Far removed from thy steadfast hand across the ocean wild, Sees not thy mighty cities, nor the pleasurance of thy mead, Nor the glory of thy landscapes where tender flocklets feed. Nor the ancient feudal castles flanked with turrets and with moats, The fane of great Westminster, nor hath heard Big Ben’s deep notes. Thy palaces and heirlooms with proud earls and ladies fair, Of noble blood and long descent, and costly jewels rare. Thy wondrous wealth and poverty with streets one shining blaze, Where tiny children clad in rags are driven within the maze Or labyrinth of alleys, just to sell God’s gift--the flowers, With little bodies blue with cold to pass the mid-night hours. Oh, Britain! Thy great heart doth swell with passionate regret That thou hast so many mouths to fill; then thou must not forget That far away ’neath Southern Cross thy child doth bless thy name, For she hath written in her heart the story of thy fame. Thy battles fought, thy hopes for peace on that expectant day When the crimson tides of human blood for aye shall fade away. And see! Thy royal daughter waits to plead with Britain’s race, To send her vessels filled with kin, to choose a dwelling-place Beneath the soft and balmy skies where giant forests gleam, And the yellow ribboned wattle grows beside the silver stream; Where golden sands of islets float beyond the purple rim Of sapphire seas, and lofty palms wave languourously and slim Where the vine and fig tree flourish within the rich, red soil, And poverty is never known save to those who will not toil. Oh, not with tones of other climes thy daughter Austral sings; Not as the birds of other lands their note’s wild echo rings, The cadence of the bell-bird’s call, the curlew’s haunting cry, The green and scarlet plumage gay which sweep across the sky, The ’possum and the mopoke, and the soft-eyed kangaroo, Nature in all her curious shapes, with flowers of gorgeous hue. In solitary splendour Austral waits within her walls Of rocky sea-girt armoury and for population calls; Her empty Northern Territory hath smiling emerald plains, Her pasture land is waiting for the men who have the brains. Oh! Mother of ours, thy children in thine island of the west Will find a home through Britain’s shore in where their hearts may rest. We know the name of Austral shines upon thy royal crown And that with thine own glorious seal her deeds are written down; And that Austral’s heart is loyal and is ever beating true, And the women of her nation are not dreamers, but they do. And their ever-marching army with intelligence will prove That Australia is advancing in her work of peace and love. Oh! Empire Mother, whom we love, we know thy greatest need