There is a lasting little flower,
That everybody knows,
Yet none has thought to think about
The little Native Rose.
The wattle and the waratah—
The world has heard of those;
But who, outside Australia, kens
The little Native Rose.
Yet first for faint, far off perfume,
That lives where memory goes;
And first of all for fadelessness—
The little Native Rose.
More verses by Henry Lawson
- The Little Slit In The Tail
- The Men Who Live It Down
- The Men Who Made Bad Matches
- The Mountain Splitter
- The Old, Old Story And The New Order