It's Grand

It's grand to be a squatter

And sit upon a post,

And watch your little ewes and lambs

A-giving up the ghost.

It's grand to be a‘ cockie’

With wife and kids to keep,

And find an all-wise Providence

Has mustered all your sheep.

It's grand to be a Western man,

With shovel in your hand,

To dig your little homestead out

From underneath the sand.

It's grand to be a shearer,

Along the Darling side,

And pluck the wool from stinking sheep

That some days since have died.

It's grand to be a rabbit

And breed till all is blue,

And then to die in heaps because

There's nothing left to chew.

It's grand to be a Minister

And travel like a swell,

And tell the Central District folk

To go to — Inverell.

It's grand to be a Socialist

And lead the bold array

That marches to prosperity

At seven bob a day.

It's grand to be an unemployed

And lie in the Domain,

And wake up every second day

And go to sleep again.

It's grand to borrow English tin

To pay for wharves and Rocks,

And then to find it is n't in

The little money-box.

It's grand to be a democrat

And toady to the mob,

For fear that if you told the truth

They'd hunt you from your job.

It's grand to be a lot of things

In this fair Southern land,

But if the Lord would send us rain,

That would, indeed, be grand!