Let others sing praise of their sea-girted isles,
But give me the bush with its limitless miles;
Then it-s over the ranges and into the West,
To the scenes of wild boyhood; we love them the best.

We-ll ride and we-ll ride from the city afar,
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are;
Where stockmen ride hard, and the drover starts forth
On his long, lonely journey -way up in the North.

When your money is low, and your luck has gone down,
There-s no place so lone as the streets of a town;
There-s nothing but worry, and dread and unrest,
So we-ll over the ranges and into the West.

The drought in the West may spread ruin around,
But the dread drought of life in the city is found;
And I-d far sooner tread on the long dusty way,
Where each one you meet says, -Good day, mate, good day.�