The Talkin' Of The Bush

You're sittin' round the campfire and hear the silence of the night.
The bush is quiet and peaceful, but she's got "tales to tell" alright

If ya listen really closely and even close your eyes,
you'll hear the bush's stories and she won't be tellin' lies

You'll hear her timeless tales, from a century ago -
when the bush was really ringin', when things were kinda slow

Can ya hear the paddle steamer as she moves on into view
you can smell the linseed oil her timber deck - so new

She's loaded up with wool bales, from a station up near Hay
Bound down to Echuca but she's still two days away

You can hear her fiery boiler as she brings her load around
Can you hear the paddle wheel churn as she moves on homeward bound

Hear the crackin' of the stockwhip, it's a bullocky fit to scream
You can hear his lively language as he urges on his team

and you can hear the axes ringin' as the sleeper cutters toil
you can hear their cross-saws singin', you can even smell the oil.

Can you hear that mob of people, makin' hurry through the bush
they've got no time to stop now, they're really at a push.

You can hear their nervous chatter, as on and on they go
they'll be headin' for the goldfields, down near Bendigo.

and can ya smell that campfire burnin', just up round the bend
It's the lonely swagman talkin', to the bush - his only friend

You can smell the eucalyptus of the river gums morning' dew
the camp fire yarns of long ago and the billies boilin' brew.

So sit and listen, watch the fire, the dreams of men of old
the bushland and her memories and her stories to be told.

She's holdin' all these stories, she'll tell you with no push
just close your eyes and listen, to the "talkin' of the bush".