Heed not the cock-sure tourist,
Seeing with English eyes;
Stroked at the banquet table
Still, with the old stock lies
Pet of a social circle,
Guest in a garden fair
Free of the first-class carriage
He learns no Australia there.
Heed not the Southern humbugs
By the first saloons who come
From his work in the wide, hot scrub-lands
The Australian goes not home.
Give them the toadies knighthood,
Fit for the souls theyve got;
Fear not to shame Australia
For Australia knows them not.
Heed not the Sydney dailies,
Naught for the land they do;
Heed not the Melbourne street crowd,
For they know no more than you!
Pent in the coastal cities,
Still on the old-world track
They know naught of Australia,
Of the heart of the great Out-Back.
But wait for the voice that gathers
Strength by the western creeks!
Heed ye the Out-Back shearers
List when the Great Bush speaks!
Heed ye the black-sheep, working
His own salvation free
And Oh! heed ye the sons of the exiles
When they speak of the things to be!
