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Where The Powlett Flows Down To The Sea

The lark he rise above the rank scrub and he carols as upward he fly
And as he ascends he grows smaller till he disappears in the sky
And in the quiet of the mid morning his song seems so peaceful to me
In that old brown and beautiful country where the Powlett flows down to the sea.

The old brown hills above Kilcunda must be old as old father time
By South West Gippsland of the Bunurong the bards have been inspired to rhyme
They overlook the flat and wide paddocks where the extinct thylacine once did range free
And where the Powlett will flow on forever on it's journey down to the sea.

Where the Bunurong danced their corroborees long before the white people came
And changed the countryside forever but suppose nothing does stay the same
On those hills were many eucalypt and wattles but the pioneers removed every tree
Yet old Powlett slowly flow onwards on it's journey down to the sea.

The magpie on a wattle is piping his song one could never mistake
The loud quacking of the wild black duck the softer quacking of the drake
A rugged land full of wild beauty and beauty is all I can see
Between Dalyston and Kilcunda where the Powlett flows down to the sea.

by Francis Duggan

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