https://nationfirst.substack.com/p/the-ballad-of-the-broken-land-4a7
They built this land from nothing much—
From dust, from drought, from stone.
They cleared the scrub, they drove the teams,
They called this country home.
They came from isles of ancient pride,
With nothing in their hand—
But grit, and God, and stubborn hope
To tame this rugged land.
The homesteads rose, the railways stretched,
The Southern Cross was flown.
A man could work, a man could speak,
And reap what he had sown.
We served no lords, we bowed to none—
But God, and law, and land.
We shared one tongue, we bore one flag,
And built with calloused hand.
But darkness doesn't charge the hill—
It creeps in through the gate.
And so began the slow decline,
By lies dressed up as fate.
In Canberra's halls the traitors stirred,
In suits, with silken lies—
They sold us out to foreign gods
And watched our country die.
It started with a dandy man—
They called him Grassby then.
He played the part of statesman well,
But dealt with wicked men.
The mafias whispered in his ear,
He smiled and spread the seed:
"No culture rules above the rest—
All cultures must be freed."
They scrapped the bonds that tied us close,
The tongue, the church, the creed.
They called it "fair", they called it "kind",
But it was pride they'd bleed.
By '89 they wrote it down—
An edict cold and planned:
That we'd no culture of our own
Upon this southern land.
They carved the nation into tribes,
By language, race, and dress.
They funded votes and "heritage,"
And made us something less.
We must not teach our children pride,
But teach them how to kneel—
To hate the flag, the ANZAC dead,
And all that Aussies feel.
They said that Christmas must be dulled,
Lest someone take offence.
They silenced speech, they softened truth,
With laws and no defence.
The cities turned to babel towers,
Where English fights to live—
And no one knows their neighbour's name,
Or what they'd die to give.
The 'Aussie spirit'? Just a brand—
To sell a tourism campaign.
The 'fair go'? Now a hollow phrase,
They chant but don't explain.
They took our schools, they took our pride,
They took the common song—
And told us all that loving home
Was backwards, bigot, wrong.
But in the bush, the fire still burns—
In hearts not yet betrayed.
In quiet pubs and cattle yards,
Where still the oath is made:
To stand for faith, for flesh and blood,
For land and home and kin.
And take the country back again
From those who sold our skin.
They think the fight is over now,
They laugh behind the glass—
But out beyond the urban sprawl,
The old truths still will pass.
We'll rise again, as once we did,
With calloused hand and voice.
Australia is not dead just yet—
But it must make a choice.
So raise the flag, remember well
The stock from which you came.
This soil is yours—this sky, this shore—
The oath remains the same.
A nation born of sweat and flame
Will not be lost to theft.
We were one people once before—
And that can't be all that's left.
— George Christensen