The skylark the small brown feathered minstrel is carolling in the sky
His image decreases to a speck as upwards he does fly
And the wattlebirds are calling on a flowering banksia tree
Where the ancient Powlett river crawls onwards to the sea
In the sand dunes by the river in the shadow of the trees
The tribe known as the Bunurong had their corroborees
And though none seem to know of their burial ground or of where their bones might lay
Their ghosts remain around the place some have been known to say
A place that has inspired the poets to verse and the songwriters to rhyme
That even did seem very old in the dinosaur time
The silver gulls are calling where the mighty surf waves roar
And the Powlett at a snail's pace crawls on towards the ocean shore
And to the dry brown scrublands the Seasons come and go
Where the Powlett from the mountains to the great Pacific flow.
His image decreases to a speck as upwards he does fly
And the wattlebirds are calling on a flowering banksia tree
Where the ancient Powlett river crawls onwards to the sea
In the sand dunes by the river in the shadow of the trees
The tribe known as the Bunurong had their corroborees
And though none seem to know of their burial ground or of where their bones might lay
Their ghosts remain around the place some have been known to say
A place that has inspired the poets to verse and the songwriters to rhyme
That even did seem very old in the dinosaur time
The silver gulls are calling where the mighty surf waves roar
And the Powlett at a snail's pace crawls on towards the ocean shore
And to the dry brown scrublands the Seasons come and go
Where the Powlett from the mountains to the great Pacific flow.
