Chorus

For the banks are all broken, they say,

And the merchants are all up a tree.

When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,

What chance for a squatter like me.

No more shall we muster the river for fats,

Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,

Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,

Or see the old stockyard again.

Leave the slip-panels down, it won’t matter much now,

There are none but the crows left to see,

Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine

On a broken-down squatter like me.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.

When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,

And the cattle were dying in scores,

Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,

Thinking justice might temper the laws.

But the farce has been played, and the Government aid

Ain’t extended to squatters, old son;

When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,

And resumed the best half of the run.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.

’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season

No squatter could stand such a rub;

For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot

That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;

And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews

Once a fellow gets put up a tree;

No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal

For a broken-down squatter like me.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.