Come Back to the Bush – Thomas E. Spencer
I’m what they call a “solid man,”
I’ve made a decent pile;
So I brought my folks to London,
And we’ve settled down in style.
We wear clothes that don’t quite suit us,
Go to balls, and shows, and plays,
And we’re striking out for happiness
In various kinds of ways.
But a Voice keeps on calling me back
To the bush and the wallaby-track,
To the home on the clearing,
The sheep and the shearing -
The voice keeps on saying, “Come back!”
We’re living in Belgravia,
In the midst of Fashion’s whirl;
On my left there lives a marquis,
And right opposite an earl.
We’ve carriage and a coachman,
And a footman dressed in plush,
Whose calves stick out so prominent
They make my daughters blush.
But the Voice keeps on saying, “Come back
To the bush and the wallaby-track,
Where the bright sun is glowing
And cattle are lowing,
Come back to your freedom, come back!

My wife she holds “receptions,”
While my daughters study “art,”
And my son he drives a tandem,
Though his father drove a cart.
We have dinner in the evening,
And we always dress to dine;
We eat strange foods with foreign names,
And wash it down with wine.
Yet the Voice keeps calling me back,
To the bush and the wallaby-track,
Where the wool-bales are packing,
And stockwhips are cracking,
It whispers forever - “Comeback!”
And the voice keeps calling, calling
Til I see the Iron Bark ridge,
Til I see the gum logs burning
In the gully near the Bridge;
I can hear the teamsters swearing
As