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His land is worn and wearied;
Its colours drab and pale,
With hills that once were mountains
Reduced to sand and shale.

Where trees grey-green and twisted,
With black and furrowed bark,
Against the hazy skyline
Stand desolate and stark.

Sun beating without mercy,
Dry year upon dry year,
With frost in winter burning
What summer doesn’t sear.

So does he yearn for softer scenes
Of pine and snow-capped peaks?
Of misty fells and vales of green
And cold clear-running creeks?

No, he would not forsake it;
Be from this brown land torn.
His spirit lies within it,
For he is native born.

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