It is calling to me with a haunting insistence,
And my feet wander off on a hoof-beaten track,
Till I hear the old magpies away in the distance
With a song of the morning that’s calling me back.
It is calling me back, for the dew’s on the clover,
And the colours are mellow on mountain and tree;
Oh, the gold has gone gray in the heart of the rover,
And the bush in the sunshine is calling to me.
It is calling to me, though the breezes are telling
Gay troubadour tales to the stars as they roam;