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.
Garnet Walch.
THE LITTLE DUCHESS.
By Ethel Turner.
"The tale is as old as the Eden tree,
And new as the new-cut tooth."