The Mountain Road

A Ballade of Home

Enid Derham

LET others prate of Greece and Rome,
    And towns where they may never be,
The muse should wander nearer home.
    My country is enough for me;
    Her wooded hills that watch the sea,
Her inland miles of springing corn,
    At Macedon or Barrakee—
I love the land where I was born.

On Juliet smile the autumn stars
    And windswept plains by Winchelsea,
In summer on their sandy bars
    Her rivers loiter languidly.
    Where singing waters fall and flee
The gullied ranges dip to Lorne
    With musk and gum and myrtle tree—
I love the land where I was born.

The wild things in her tangles move
    As blithe as fauns in Sicily,
Where Melbourne rises roof by roof
    The tall ships serve her at the quay,
    And hers the yoke of liberty
On stalwart shoulders lightly worn,
    Where thought and speech and prayer are free—
I love the land where I was born.

Princes and lords of high degree,
    Smile, and we fling you scorn for scorn,
In hope and faith and memory
    I love the land where I was born.

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