Colouring the bushland with yellow blaze
You warm the last of winter's days
Bending with your weight of gold
The promise of springtime you unfold.
We love to see you wattle tree
You warm our days with your golden rays
Your fluffy flowers smell so sweet
It's you we sing of and it's you we greet.
You've watched our country from the start
You've brightened many a weary heart
The pioneer farmer on his own
The tired drover going home.
© Jim Low