Healesville is a smiling lass,
'Mid her encircling hills,
Where down full many a mountain pass
The gold of wattle spills.
She holds her hands out to the Spring,
E'er upon pleasure bent;
Yet knowing that each year will bring
When comes the time of blossoming
Profit for her content.

Healesville is a sorceress,
With magic gifts imbued:
For each year, with the wattles' dress,
She finds her youth renewed.
So, ever young and ever gay,
She bids, at each rebirth,
The weary toilers here to stray,
And pass the sunlit hours away
In idleness and mirth.

Healesville keeps a boarding-house
She likes to entertain;
She scorns to play the country mouse;
But, pert and rather vain.
With lip-stick, rouge and marcelled hair,
Would add to her renown
For carefree mirth; and seeks to wear
The smart, sophisticated air
Of flappers fresh from Town.

Healesville calls you to her hills,
While summer suns look down,
To join the carnival that fills
With merriment her town.
Then as late autumn's shadows creep
Across the western plain,
And winter snowfalls clothe the steep.
She settles to her beauty sleep
Till springtime comes again.