(Air: “It’s 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 Eva’s 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 he’s nought for a boss
But a broken-down squatter like me!