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Poem	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!
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