Out There

The ibis are croaking in the morning air
In John Shaw Neilson's country 'The Country Out There'
An old brown countryside that is as old as time
That once inspired a poet for to laud it in rhyme,
So little of this land i can claim to know
The black tribes they hunted here centuries ago
On warm Summer evenings in the shade of the trees
They told their old stories and had their corroborees,
Out there far from the traffic and the noise of the street
Where the creek from the high ground the river does meet
The butchebird pipes on the black wattle tree
And none can mistake his bubbling melody
And the willy wagtail with the wagging tail
On the look out for flies is perched on the fence rail.