They don-t believe in fairies,
Those old folk wide and staid,
They-ve never caught the glitter
Of their wings in forest shade.

For them the bush is just a place
Of timber, cows and corn,
They-ve never been up our creek
On a cool November morn.

From mossy banks all dotted
With violets breaking through,
Beneath the frondled maidenhair
Their shy eyes peep at you.

They sleep -neath tasselled tea-trees,
The drowsy summer day,
Where the tiny crimson love-birds
Around them dart and play.

The dew-drenched nights of Summer,
When gum-trees are aflower,
In foamy waves of sweetness
Bring round the fairies- hour.

This is the time of frolic,
When they go floating high,
On wispy shreds of river mist,
Across the shining sky.

What! Don-t believe in fairies!
When they-re round you everywhere!
See them- who needs to see them?
You simply know they-re there.