Oh, my pretty little calf,
At the squatter you may laugh,
For he’ll never be your owner any more;
For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
piece of land,
Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
Although before they’re never known to stray,
Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
And sell them into slav’ry far away.