| Albert Namatjra painted
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| Not so much the things he saw
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| But what he felt inside and how he loved the Flinders Range
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| The only thing he ever wanted
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| The reason that he painted for
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| Was that everybody share the dream
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| His land would never change
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| Ah but change it did and through the years
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| They introduced some foreign plants
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| Familiar things are strange
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| While strangers play upon the lawn
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| And mother land has shed her tears
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| For lives that never stood a chance
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| And Albert Namatjra cried, as we all cry
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| The Native Born
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| So bow your head old Eucalypt and Wattle Tree
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| Australia’s bush losing its identity
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| While the cities and the parks that they have planned
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| Look out of place because the spirit’s in the land
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| Look out of place because the spirit’s in the land
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| Do you remember Joseph Banks?
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| Who stood upon this sacred earth
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| And what he felt inside when he looked around and saw
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| The land to whom we give our thanks
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| Our mother land who’s given birth
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| To trees and plants and animals he’d never seen before?
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| So bow your head old Eucalypt and Wattle Tree
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| Australia’s bush losing its identity
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| While the cities and the parks that they have planned
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| Look out of place because the spirit’s in the land
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| But no one knows or no one hears
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| The way we used to sing and dance
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| And how the Gum Tree stood and stretched to greet the golden morn
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| And mother land still sheds her tears
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| For lives that never stood a chance
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| And Albert Namatjra cried as we all cry
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| The Native Born
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| We cry the Native Born |