<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360273" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>No Foe Shall Gather Our Harvest</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sons of the mountains of Scotland,<br>Welshmen of coomb and defile,<br>Breed of the moors of England,<br>Children of Erin's green isle,<br>We stand four square to the tempest,<br>Whatever the battering hail-<br>No foe shall gather our harvest,<br>Or sit on our stockyard rail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our women shall walk in honour,<br>Our children shall know no chain,<br>This land, that is ours forever,<br>The invader shall strike at in vain.<br>Anzac!...Tobruk!...and Kokoda!...<br>Could ever the old blood fail?<br>No foe shall gather our harvest,<br>Or sit on our stockyard rail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So hail-fellow-met we muster,<br>And hail-fellow-met fall in,<br>Wherever the guns may thunder,<br>Or the rocketing air-mail spin!<br>Born of the soil and the whirlwind,<br>Though death itself be the gale-<br>No foe shall gather our harvest<br>Or sit on our stockyard rail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We are the sons of Australia, <br>of the men who fashioned the land;<br>We are the sons of the women<br>Who walked with them hand in hand;<br>And we swear by the dead who bore us,<br>By the heroes who blazed the trail,<br>No foe shall gather our harvest,<br>Or sit on our stockyard rail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Dame+Mary+Gilmore">Dame Mary Gilmore</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360273" data-title="No Foe Shall Gather Our Harvest de Dame Mary Gilmore" data-description="Sons of the mountains of Scotland, Welshmen of coomb and defile, Breed of the moors of England, Children of Erin's green isle, We stand four square to the tempest, Whatever the battering hail- No foe shall gather our harvest, Or sit on our stockya..."></div> </div> </div>

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