The Broken-Down Squatter
By Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)
(Air: Its 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 Evas 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 hes 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 wont 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
Aint 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 its useless to squat when the rents are so hot
That one cant save the price of ones grub;
And theres not much to choose twixt the banks and the Jews
Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
No odds what I feel, theres no court of appeal
For a broken-down squatter like me.
Chorus: For the banks, &c.