Wind in the Tussock
‘Wind in the Tussock’ Lyrics
Chorus:- There’s snow on the hills and frost in the gullies,
Where winters are keen and the air tastes like wine.
My heart feels the pull of the wind in the tussock,
Calling me back to the mountains again.
The scent of the speargrass is drawing my heart in,
As I long again for the High Country air.
The wind in the tussock is calling me homewards,
To the valleys and ridges that I love so dear.
There’s a fragrance in the tussock fire as it’s burning,
Wisps of smoke curling up to the sky.
The dew in the dawning of a clear spring morning,
As the sun warms the tops all white skiffed with snow.
There’s pleasure in working the snow crested mountains,
In boiling a billy and watching stars fall,
To be lost in a world remote from the city,
With the mist far below like a great rolling sea.
When the old man Nor-wester blows hot down the valley,
Reminds me of a girl that I knew long ago.
Her hair was as fair as the snowgrass in summer,
Breaking my heart when she drifted away.
There are dreams in the twilight of long autumn evenings,
When the embers of memory still flicker and fade.
The tussock aglow with the deep golden sunset,
Gently caressed by the evening breeze.
‘Yorky’s Run’ Lyrics
Yorky's Run
‘The Final Track’ Lyrics
The Final Track
‘The Old Station Gate’ Lyrics
The Old Station Gate
Faded Pictures
‘Faded Pictures’ Lyrics
My name is Sandy Donaldson, please listen while I tell,
How I was brought up in Nelson, a town I love so well.
The year my schooling ended I became a farming hand,
Never dreaming that I’d soon be in some distant foreign land.
For we were restless, brave and carefree, as young men one and all,
When we heard the cry for freedom and rallied to the call.
We never thought to question the reason or the why,
As through the crowded streets we marched and proudly waved goodbye.
We left behind our families, nursing sorrow grief and pain,
Not knowing if we would return or ever meet again.
Our troopship sailed for Egypt and her burning desert sands,
Where our thoughts were ever mindful of our own fair native land.
My best mate’s name was Scotty who used to shear the wool,
He was forever joking and playing Nature’s fool.
His wit and sense of humour kept us sane throughout the war,
But when the guns fell silent, his laugh was heard no more.
He was one of many to make the final sacrifice,
Standing up for King and Country and what he believed was right.
Those of us returning from that journey into Hell,
Knew we’d never fight again, we’d learned our lesson well.
Their graves today lie buried under Western Desert sands,
In the South Seas and in Europe where white crosses stand in bands.
That they died to end all fighting was the politicians vow,
Yet the counties that were vanquished are the ones who prosper now!
There are photos just like Scottys in homesteads big and small,
Standing on the mantel or displayed on family walls.
In memory of sons and husbands who failed to return…
To the homes they left in uniform, but would never see again.
The fighting still continues every time that bugle sounds,
For the price of mankind’s freedom lies buried ‘neath the ground.
So we need to be reminded before the Bomb begins to fall,
Of the sadness that surrounds those faded pictures on the wall.