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A Voice From The City

Rating: 2.7

On western plain and eastern hill
Where once my fancy ranged,
The station hands are riding still
And they are little changed.
But I have lost in London gloom
The glory of the day,
The grand perfume of wattle bloom
Is faint and far away.
Brown faces under broad-brimmed hats
The grip of wiry hands,

The gallops on the frosty flats,
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7/29/2021 1:34:35 PM # 1.0.0.666