They're taking it, the shipping push,As all the rest must go--The only spot of cliff and bushThat harbour people know.The spirit of the past is deadNorth Sydney has no soul--The State is cutting down Ball's Head.To make a wharf for coal.
Where picnic parties used to goTo spend a glorious day,With all the scenery of a coastAnd not a cent to pay.The deep cool tangle shall be clearedTo make the glaring roadsAnd motor lorries jolt and grindAnd drag their sordid loads.
And strings of grimy trucks shall runIn everlasting trainsAnd on the cliffs where wild trees areShall stand the soulless cranes,To dump their grimy loads below,Where great brown rocks are grand;And the deep grass and wild flowers grow--And boating couples land.
No more shall poorer familiesGive "Grandma" and "Grandad"A glimpse of nature's mysteriesTo make their old hearts glad.No more our eyes shall be relievedIn the city's garish day--A sordid crime has been achieved!And none has aught to say.