And a sweet hope gilds the future with the colour of the grain;
Gentle visions softly tripping in the ploughing and the stripping,
While the kookaburras chorus once again.
Let a dying fancy hover round the glories that are over;
Lift a song to sing the present—to the hopeless hope impart—
For above the past’s bewailing, golden-writ but unavailing,
Is the simple little ditty that can cheer a drooping heart.
Lift it high for all to hear it. In the Helper’s love endear it,
And my ageing heart shall hasten to applaud the sweet refrain;
Yes, I’d feel the pulses stirring to the splendid truth recurring,