A Land He Calls His Own

The big old bullocks walking down the red and dusty track

Far from the coast and the city lights in the heart of the great outback

And close behind on a big bay horse astride his leather throne

Sits a native of Australia, in a land he calls his own.

Though his by birth, the laws of man, have kept him from this place

And weeping spirits of the soil kept calling to his race,

Though the earth is cold and empty now, since he wandered from his home

Where is our native brother, in this land he calls his own.

When sacred soil was plundered, and the elders made a stand

Their words were left rejected and drove them to the sand

And the big man in the city, happy with the deal he’d sold

Condemned a thousand people, from the land they call their own.

The land is dead and silent and the white man's hand is gone

And the trees and birds have left us, and the more we hear their song

Though they’ve lift the spirit from you and carved you to the bone

We’re back to claim our birthright this place we call our home,

So big bullocks walking down the red and dusty track

Far from the coast and the city lights in the heart of the great outback

And close behind on a big bay horse astride his leather throne

Sits a native of Australia, In a land he calls his own.