The Squatters Daughter

Out in the west, where runs are wide,     And days than ours are hotter,     Not very far from Lachlan Side     There dwelt a wealthy squatter.     Of old opinions he was full,     An Englishman, his sire,     Was hated long where peasants pull     Their forelocks to the squire.     He loved the good old British laws,     And Royaltys regalia,     And oft was heard to growl because     They wouldnt fit Australia.     This squatter had a lovely child,     An angel bright we thought her;     And all the stockmen rude and wild     Adored the squatters daughter.     But on a bright eventful morn,     A swell of northern nation,     A lordling, brought his languid yawn     And eyeglass to the station.     He coveted the squatters wealth;     He saw the squatters daughter:     And, what is more than heart or health,     His empty title bought her.     And Yes, the father made her say     In spite of tears and kissing;     But early on the wedding day     The station found her missing.     And madder still the squatter grew,     And madder still the lover;     When by-and-by a-missing too,     A stockman they discover.     Then on the squatters brow the frown     Went blacker still and blacker;     He sent a man to bring from town     A trooper and a tracker.     The dusty rascal saw the trail;     He never saw it plainer;     The reason why he came to fail     Will take a shrewd explainer.     A day and night the party lose;     The track the tracker parried;     And then a stockman brought the news,     The runaways were married!     The squatter swore that hed forgive,     Perhaps, when he forgot her;     But hed disown her while hed live,     And while they called him squatter.     But as the empty months went oer,     To ease his hearts vexation     He brought his bold young son-in-law     To manage stock and station.     And glad was he that he forgave,     Because a something had he     To keep his gray hairs from the grave,     And call him Dear Grand Daddy.     To Democratic victories     In after years hed listen;     And, strange to say, to things like these     His aged eyes would glisten.     The lordling took another girl     Not quite of his desire,     And went to where the farmers twirl     Their forelocks to the squire.     Now often to the station comes     An old and wrinkled tracker:     They cheer his heart with plenty rum,     And plenty pheller bacca.