Australia's sons are we,
And the freest of the free,
But Love enchains us still with fetters strong
To the dear old land at Home,
Far across the rolling foam—
The little isle to which our hearts belong.
It shall always be our boast,
Our bumper-honoured toast,
That, should Britain bid us help her, we'll obey;
Then, if e'er the call is made,
And Old England needs our aid,
These are the words Australia's sons will say—
There is not a strong right hand,
Throughout this Southern land,
But will draw a sword in dear old England's cause;
Our numbers may be few,
But we've loyal hearts and true,
And the Lion's cubs have got the Lion's claws.
From our ocean-guarded strand,
O'er the sunny plains inland,
To the cloud-kissed mountain summits faint and far,
Australians bred and born,
Behold yon banner torn,
And greet it with a lusty-lunged hurrah!
'Tis the brave old Union Jack,
That nothing can beat back—
Ever waving where the brunt of battle lies;
For each frayed and faded thread
Britain counts a hero dead,
Who died to gain the liberties we prize.
Then there's not, &c.
The ever-honoured name
On the bright bead-roll of Fame,
That our fathers held through all the changing Past,
In it we claim our share,
And by Saint George we swear,
We can keep that name untarnished to the last;
Then, when the hour arrives,
We will give our very lives
For the dearest land of all the lands on earth,
And, foremost in the fray,
Show Britain's foes the way
Australia's sons can prove their British birth.
Yes, there's not, &c.
Sons of the South, unite
In federated might,
The Champions of your Country and your Queen;
From New Zealand's glacier throne
To the burning Torrid Zone,
We'll prove that welded steel is tough and keen.
The wide world shall be shown
That we mean to hold our own
In the home of our adoption, free and fair;
And if the Lion needs,
He shall see, by doughty deeds,
How his Austral cubs can guard their father's lair.
For there's not, &c.