The farmer rose at dawn one day to greet the
Just once more Lord please send the rain before I die.
I've struggled with the banks, bush fires, floods and drought
But this lack of good spring rain really wears me out.
The shearing has gone smoothly no rain to stop
It took me twelve hard months to get this lot to grow
Soft white wool is coming off the shears and out the press
Prices have hit rock bottom it would make saint depressed.
The country's screaming out for rain the trees
are dying out
Its just a struggle to hang on everything's gone up the spout
Plant more trees some folks say id will do the country good.
You can use them for paper wood chip or winter firewood.
What's the point with no rain to burst our
With empty tanks and broken dreams ending down the track
So when someone says we need some rain don't jump in
With not today! As it's the farmer that takes it on the chin.
Currawong call with piercing shrills.
First light baths the distant hills.
The cattle stir as fox lopes by
Parrots chirp in the ne days sky.
Bronze wings fly in their own bush haven
Small birds hide from old black raven.
White cockatoos and pink galas.
Fly fast to flee from passing cars.
Whistlers swam and brown hawk sway
Down on rabbits, mice and prey
As brolgas dance the swans swim on
Kookaburras and mgpies burst in with song
Blue wrens fire tails and other finches
Dark back and forth within inches
These are some of the sights and sounds
That live and die on God's good ground.