Far To The Northward There Lies A Land, A Wonderful Land That The Winds Blow Over, And None May Fathom Or Understand The Charm It Holds For The Restless Rover; A Great Grey Chaos, A Land Half Made, Where Endless Space Is And No Life Stirreth; There The Soul Of A Man Will Recoil Afraid From The Sphinx-Like Visage That Nature Weareth. But Old Dame Nature, Though Scornful, Craves Her Dole Of Death And Her Share Of Slaughter; Many Indeed Are The Nameless Graves Where Her Victims Sleep By The Grey Gulf-Water. Slowly And Slowly Those Grey Streams Glide, Drifting Along With A Languid Motion, Lapping The Reed-Beds On Either Side, Wending Their Way To The North Ocean. Grey Are The Plains Where The Emus Pass Silent And Slow, With Their Dead Demeanour; Over The Dead Man'S Graves The Grass Maybe Is Waving A Trifle Greener. Down In The World Where Men Toil And Spin Dame Nature Smiles As Man'S Hand Has Taught Her; Only The Dead Men Her Smiles Can Win In The Great Lone Land By The Grey Gulf-Water. For The Strength Of Man Is An Insect'S Strength In The Face Of That Mighty Plain And River, And The Life Of A Man Is A Moment'S Length To The Life Of The Stream That Will Run For Ever. And So It Comes That They Take No Part In Small World Worries; Each Hardy Rover Rides Like A Paladin, Light Of Heart, With The Plains Around And The Blue Sky Over. And Up In The Heavens The Brown Lark Sings The Songs The Strange Wild Land Has Taught Her; Full Of Thanksgiving Her Sweet Song Rings, And I Wish I Were Back By The Grey Gulf-Water.