‘Til white men came and with their saws and crosscuts they cut down the trees leaving the hills looking bare
And any damage done to Mother Nature as we ought know is so hard to repair.
In those old hills the butcherbirds are piping on blackwood trees as dawn lights up the sky
And through the high paddocks the roos are hopping after slaking their thirst in mountain creek nearby,
They head for small wood a half mile off for cover where in the rank undergrowth they will rest the day
In daylight hours one seldom sees them grazing they mostly rest in cover hid away.
To those old hills the Spring brings her green beauty ’til warm Summer leaves them looking brown
they have been here who knows perhaps forever and they overlook a century old town
the black tribes who once lived here gone forever dispossessed by those who came from far away
The first people to have lived in this Country their bones out there amongst those brown hills lay.
From those brown hills the creek begins it’s sea going journey and flows through flatter country down below
And around those old hills the Spring she spreads her greeness and they remain though Seasons come and go
They have been here who knows perhaps forever and people come and go but they remain
And if my soul in a young body is re-incarnated I’d love to live near those old hills again.