The Squatter Of The Olden Time

(Air: A fine old English gentleman.)     Ill sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,     Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,     Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate     That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great         Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.     His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,     And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;     And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,     And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose         Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.     And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,     And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them all,     Even to the scabby wanderer youd think no good at all;     For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the small         Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.     And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,     His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;     The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,     He darkly hints that Thompsons run from scab is scarcely free         This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.     And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,     But finds with grief hes not received as he had hoped to be.     His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too free,     And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they chance to see         This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.