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 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 docks And then to find it isn'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!