“From the land of lands most fair;
Now what shall we sing at the festivals?
For sorrow and death are there,
In the land of the lily and rose,
In the land where the sun-birds sing,
And the world is not happy wherever goes
The barque with the silver wing.”
On their royal pens round Mount Hope Bay,
The ospreys scream in the noons,
And the early bluebirds flit, and stray