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Mt. Wellington: Sanatorium of Tasmania - a poem by Mulga Mick (1875 - 1958)
Kunanyi - Mount Wellington
Mt. Wellington: Sanatorium of Tasmania
When you've sampled doctor’s tonics and the chemists' patent pills, and you're sick of taking pickups every day.
When you've tried all sorts of nostrums to cure your fancied ills, and you cannot chase the darned blues away.
Just stroll up to the mountain where the air is pure and clear, and the handy works of nature all are blessed.
You'll forget about your troubles in that glorious atmosphere. There your jaded mind and body will find rest.
High upon that mountain, when the view is clear and bright, the beauties of our harbour can be seen.
Its miles of placid waters fill the soul with pure delight, with its mirrored shades of blue and gold and green.
Away across the landscape, where the land waves rise and fall, and sunbeams cast their shadows to and fro.
That mighty mount, Ben Lomond, stands high above them all, with its rugged peaks, air purified with snow.
From the top of Hobart's mountain, with its scenery so grand, you can study Mother Nature at her best.
From the first bright ray of sunshine that illuminates the land, to the glorious golden sunset in the west.
Where myriads of gum trees with their various shades of green, cast their shadows or the gullies dark and deep.
Where maiden streams that issue from the mountain's breast are seen, and their gurgling noises never seem to sleep.
There your thoughts will rise so far above the sordid things of life, as your lungs inhale the ozone from the air.
And far away will seem to you the world and all its strife, its petty ills, its envy and its care.
Your soul may burst the shackles of conventions, binding laws, and spread its wings in imagination's fear.
High upon that mountaintop, perhaps you'll find the cause of life's mistakes and all our earthly fear.
Maria Grist
Mt. Wellington: Sanatorium of Tasmania
When you've sampled doctor’s tonics and the chemists' patent pills, and you're sick of taking pickups every day.
When you've tried all sorts of nostrums to cure your fancied ills, and you cannot chase the darned blues away.
Just stroll up to the mountain where the air is pure and clear, and the handy works of nature all are blessed.
You'll forget about your troubles in that glorious atmosphere. There your jaded mind and body will find rest.
High upon that mountain, when the view is clear and bright, the beauties of our harbour can be seen.
Its miles of placid waters fill the soul with pure delight, with its mirrored shades of blue and gold and green.
Away across the landscape, where the land waves rise and fall, and sunbeams cast their shadows to and fro.
That mighty mount, Ben Lomond, stands high above them all, with its rugged peaks, air purified with snow.
From the top of Hobart's mountain, with its scenery so grand, you can study Mother Nature at her best.
From the first bright ray of sunshine that illuminates the land, to the glorious golden sunset in the west.
Where myriads of gum trees with their various shades of green, cast their shadows or the gullies dark and deep.
Where maiden streams that issue from the mountain's breast are seen, and their gurgling noises never seem to sleep.
There your thoughts will rise so far above the sordid things of life, as your lungs inhale the ozone from the air.
And far away will seem to you the world and all its strife, its petty ills, its envy and its care.
Your soul may burst the shackles of conventions, binding laws, and spread its wings in imagination's fear.
High upon that mountaintop, perhaps you'll find the cause of life's mistakes and all our earthly fear.
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