Each Time I Return To Old Sherbrooke

Old Belgrave it hasn't changed that much the traffic buzzing up and down
To and from the Melbourne eastern Suburbs on the Burwood highway through many an old Sherbrooke Town
Yet out of Belgrave it is quieter in Kallista of the tall gum trees
The wind in the mountain ash soughing in the freshening mountain breeze.

The whistle of the steam train Puffing Billy as it slowly chugs up Selby hill
In the quietness of the mid morning the blast of it's hooter sounds shrill
It puffs up black smoke as it climbs on up through the wooded higher ground
Towards Emerald and on to Gembrook and to Belgrave again homeward bound.

Each time that I return to Sherbrooke I hear the big black cockatoos
Dark brown birds with the yellow striped tails that some refer to as weerloos
And their cousins the white sulphur crested cockies their grating calls one cannot mistake
In flocks when assembled together quite a noisy racket they make.

Each time I return to old Sherbrooke I hear the cawing of the pale eyed crow
And I sometimes hear the song of the lyrebird in the gullies where the tree ferns grow
And in the high parks by the forest the familiar calls of the peewee
One might say an Earthly Utopia or at least that's how it seems to me.