A Song of the Republic

by Henry Lawson

　　Sons of the South, and do.

　　Banish from under your bonny skies

　　Those old-world errors and wrongs and lies.

　　Making a hell in a Paradise

　　That belongs to your sons and you.

　　Sons of the South, make choice between

　　(Sons of the South, choose true),

　　The Land of Morn and the Land of E'en,

　　The Old Dead Tree and the Young Tree Green,

　　The Land that belongs to the lord and the Queen,

　　And the Land that belongs to you.

　　Sons of the South, your time will come –

　　Sons of the South, 'tis near –

　　The "Signs of the Times", in their language dumb,

　　Fortell it, and ominous whispers hum

　　Like sullen sounds of a distant drum,

　　In the ominous atmosphere.

　　Sons of the South, aroused at last!

　　Sons of the South are few!

　　But your ranks grow longer and deeper fast,

　　And ye shall swell to an army vast,

　　And free from the wrongs of the North and Past

　　The land that belongs to you.