And I see and hear the galahs in their feathers of pink and gray
In the high paddock by the wooded hill in the bright sunlight of day.
In the wooded hills of Sherbrooke Winter is at an end
In the place where many people live who see Nature as a friend
And the conservationists of Sherbrooke in their wooded hills take pride
You ask them they will tell you ’tis a grand old Countryside.
The whipbird in the wooded gully I fancy I can hear
The whip like cracking of his call it resounds loud and clear
And the varied song of the lyrebird one never could mistake
Even out of the noise of a chainsaw his own tune he can make.
For many years I lived in Sherbrooke and the memories with me remain
Of the distinctive songs of the pied currawongs Nature’s forecasters of rain
And in their small corner of the woodland the bell miners pipe all day
And where they live it has been said there is dieback and decay.
In the wooded hills of Sherbrooke I fancy I can hear and see
A small flock of beautiful crimson rosellas piping on a wattle tree
And the sulphur crested cockatoos with yellow crests and feathers white as snow
Lovely to look at but their grating calls coarser than that of a crow.
The laughter of the kookaburra in the wooded hillside ring
They lay their eggs in a tree cavity and raise their young in Spring
And the giant mountain ash trees monarchs of all they survey
Tower over all in Sherbrooke East of Melbourne far away.
But Ken will never again see England’s shore with his deceased wife and daughter he will lay
When the reaper pays him a call in a not too distant day.
Old Ken is in his early seventies the years have left him gray
His memory is quite brilliant though his health is in decay
Whenever we meet in the park we chat for a short while
An honest man who worked quite hard free of conceit and guile.
His English accent with him still and with him ’twill remain
Until he breathes his very last that bit of England he’ll retain
His wife Lyn was an Aussie and their only child a daughter Sue
Drowned in the sea at Shoreham back in nineteen seventy two.
He has a brown and white jack russell Sandy a faithful little mate
A three years old one person dog to him his master is a true great
‘Tis true what what some say about dogs a dog can be your best friend
Your dog to you devoted until the very end.
I often meet him in the park a nice and gentle man
One nearing his mid seventies towards the end of his time span
Still he always seems so happy there is warmth in his hello
He is one of those good people I feel privileged to know.