Fill with wassail the bowl, a theme yet unsung.
By bard or by minstrel inspires my lay,
Thro’ the wilds of Australia the praises have rung,
Of her maidens but yet unrecorded are they.
Then my joyousness share brimful fill your glasses
And empty the cup to the Currency lasses.

With as graceful a figure as ever was borne,
By their own mountain lily, which blooms on the wild,
With soft glossy tresses which well might adorn
Nature’s last-born of Beauty, her fav’rite child.
If woman’s a treasure all wealth that surpasses,
What treasure can equal our currency lasses.