My Garden In The Bush

I wish no shady garden, where most wondrous flowers abound,
With winding paths and sundial, and with oak leaves on the ground.
I wish no rolling velvet slopes, where lakes of silver shine,
With lavender and lilac, mignonette and eglantine.
Hillside bushland is my garden, where all Nature's sweetest grow;
Where the banks and paths are moss-clad and the mountain bluebells blow.
No hawthorns grace the portals, crimson laurels are not seen,
No golden chalked daffodils or snowdrops tipp'd with green;
But daisy dappled gladings, with clematis peeping through,
And foxglove in my garden and soft violets drenched with dew.
There the rills are shining emerald—so cool and clear, so green
And the bellbirds carol longest and the grey ground larks are seen;
Where the kaka, decked with colour, and the wingless wekas play,
And the moreporka call at night-time and the tuis all the day.
I wish no rambling castle, where ike sweet forget-me-not
And the columbines are growing—native bushland is my lot.
And there among the fern trees and the shady dew-dripped bowers,
I love to leave the mountain track to dwell 'mid bushland flowers.

—I.M.L.