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'Tis a song of the Never Never land— Set to the tune of a scorching gale On the sandhills red, When the grasses dead Loudly rustle, and bow the head To the breath of its dusty hail:

Where the cattle trample a dusty pad Across the never-ending plain, And come and go With muttering low In the time when the rivers cease to flow, And the Drought King holds his reign;