High on the hills, where the tall trees grow,
There lives an axeman that I know. 
From his little hut by a ferny creek,
Day after day, week after week,
He goes each morn with his shining axe,
Trudging along by the forest tracks;
And he chops and he chops till the daylight goes—­
High on the hills, where the blue-gum grows.

(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)
There’s a log to move and a branch to lop. 
Now to the felling!  His sharp axe bites
Into a tree on the forest heights,
And scarce for a breath does the axeman stop—­
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)
Bell-birds watch him; and in the fern
Wallabies listen awhile, and turn
Back through the bracken, and off they hop. 
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)
Patient and tireless, blow on blow
The axeman swings as the minutes go;
While the echoes ring from the mountain-top. 
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)

Round about him the rabbits play,
Skipping and scampering all the day,
And the sweet young grass by the logs they crop. 
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)

Crimson parrots above him climb,
Chattering, chattering all the time,
As down from the branches the twigs they drop. 
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip!  Chop!)
Steadily, surely, on he goes,
Shaking the tree with his mighty blows: 
There’s never a pause and there’s never a stop. 
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)

Out from the bush beyond is heard
The swaggering song of the butcher-bird
Seeking a joint for his butcher’s shop. 
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)
Deeper and deeper the cut creeps in,
While the parrots shriek with a deafening din,
And the chips fly out with a flip and a flop. 
(Chip!  Chop!  Chip!  Chop!)
Yellow robins come flocking round,
Watching the chips as they fall to ground,
Darting to catch the grubs that drop. 
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)

The blows come quicker.  The axe-biade hums,
Stand well back, there, before she comes! 
Hark!  How the splinters crack and pop—­
(Chip! . .  Chop! . .  Chip! . .  Chop!)
Listen!  Listen!  She’s creaking now! 
Look, high up, at that trembling bough! 
Another second, and down she’ll smash,
Shaking the earth with a mighty crash;
Look at her!  Look at her! (Chip!  Chop! 
Chip! . . . . . . . .Chip!)
               Wee—­E—­E—­E—­E—­E—–­
          
                                      flop!

THE DROVERS

Out across the spinifex, out across the sand,
Out across the saltbush to Never Never land
   That’s the way the drovers go, jogging down the track—­
   That’s the way the drovers go.  But how do they come back? 
Back across the saltbush from Never Never land. 
Back across the spinifex, back across the sand.