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 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!