It’s Grand
It’s grand to be a squatterAnd sit upon a post,And watch your little ewes and lambsA-giving up the ghost.
It’s grand to be a ‘cockie’With wife and kids to keep,And find an all-wise ProvidenceHas mustered all your sheep.
It’s grand to be a Western man,With shovel in your hand,To dig your little homestead outFrom underneath the sand.
It’s grand to be a shearer,Along the Darling side,And pluck the wool from stinking sheepThat some days since have died.
It’s grand to be a rabbitAnd breed till all is blue,And then to die in heaps becauseThere’s nothing left to chew.
It’s grand to be a MinisterAnd travel like a swell,And tell the Central District folkTo go to—Inverell.
It’s grand to be a SocialistAnd lead the bold arrayThat marches to prosperityAt seven bob a day.
It’s grand to be an unemployedAnd lie in the Domain,And wake up every second dayAnd go to sleep again.
It’s grand to borrow English tinTo pay for wharves and Rocks,And then to find it isn’t inThe little money-box.
It’s grand to be a democratAnd toady to the mob,For fear that if you told the truthThey’d hunt you from your job.
It’s grand to be a lot of thingsIn this fair Southern land,But if the Lord would send us rain,That would, indeed, be grand!