In the dry and stony paddocks farmers any crops cannot grow
And in the freshening winds of Autumn days the seeds of thistles blow
Across the dry brown country they spread their tiny seed
By the volcanic mountain they multiply and breed
And next year’s crop of thistles are born in this way
In the dry and stony country more thistles every day,
The dry brown grass that grows between the stones and thistles poor sheep and cattle eat
They will never be fit for slaughter on their bones little meat
In this Countryside plenty of roos, wallaby, rabbit and hare
But emus, echidnas, koalas and wombats they do seem rather rare
And in the stony Countryside where mostly thistles grow
Time does not wait for anyone and the Seasons come and go.

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