WHERE the blossom glows I follow,
Sipping nectar as I go.
Timbered hill and wooded hollow,
Shore and scrub-land, these I know;
Following the floral river
Flowing down a scented land,
Voyage I, where the Great Giver
Strews His gifts on every hand.
Where my honey-sipping cousins
Fill the day with melody—
Tho’ I count them in their dozens—
Song, alas, is not for me.
But, these meeker minstrels scorning,
Rather am I prone to brag;
To the chorus of the morning
Shouting, “Quock! Up with the rag!”
These my cousins, pert or gracious,
Trim or tuneful, claim all man’s
Admiration; I, pugnacious
King of honey-eating clans,
Ever bragging, ever brawling,
Seem to flaunt the bully’s air;
While my rough, discordant calling
Matches ill my dainty fare.
Yet, by wooded hill and hollow,
He, the Giver, knows full well—
As His bounteous way I follow—
All a grateful heart would tell.
Where the floral stream, o’erflowing
Banksia boughs and wattle banks,
Spills its beauty, song not knowing,
Pour I forth my raucous thanks.