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HE thrush is in the wattle tree, an', "O, you pretty dear!" He's callin' to his little wife for all the bush to hear. He's wantin' all the bush to know about his charmin' hen; He sings it over fifty times, an' then begins again. For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The world is wet with dew, With tiny drops a-twinkle where the sun comes shinin' thro'.

The thrush is in the wattle tree, red robin's underneath. The little blue-cap's dodgin' in an' out amongst the heath; An' they're singin', boy, they're singin' like they'd bust 'emselves to bits; While, up above, old Laughin' Jack is havin' forty fits. For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The leaves are all ashine: There's treasure all about the place; an' all of it is mine.

Oh, it's good to be a wealthy man, it's grand to be a king With mornin' on the forest-land an' joy in everything. It's fine to be a healthy man with healthy work to do In the singin' land, the clean land, washed again with dew. When sunlight slants across the trees, an' birds begin to sing. Then kings may snore in palaces, but I'm awake—and king. But the king must cook his breakfast, an' the king must sweep the floor; Then out with axe on shoulder to his kingdom at the door,