The Broken-Down Squatter

(Air: “It’s a fine hunting day.”) Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can; All our mates in the paddock are dead. Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva’s sweet dells And the hills where your lordship was bred; Together to roam from our drought-stricken home— It seems hard that such things have to be, And its hard on a “hogs” when he’s nought for a boss But a broken-down squatter like me! Chorus For the banks are all broken, they say, And the merchants are all up a tree. When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court, What chance for a squatter like me. No more shall we muster the river for fats, Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain, Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon, Or see the old stockyard again. Leave the slip-panels down, it won’t matter much now, There are none but the crows left to see, Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine On a broken-down squatter like me. Chorus: For the banks, &c. When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst, And the cattle were dying in scores, Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck, Thinking justice might temper the laws. But the farce has been played, and the Government aid Ain’t extended to squatters, old son; When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent, And resumed the best half of the run. Chorus: For the banks, &c. ’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season No squatter could stand such a rub; For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot That one can’t save the price of one’s grub; And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews Once a fellow gets put up a tree; No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me. Chorus: For the banks, &c.