Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
night,
And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.

Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
maybe die of thirst;
But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
first,
For there’s many a strong and stalwart man come out to
make his pile,
Who never leaves the fatal shore of this thrice accursed isle.

To sum it up in few short words, the place is only fit
For those who were sent out here, for from this they cannot
flit.
But any other men who come a living here to try,
Will vegetate a little while and then lie down and die.



THE SQUATTER’S MAN


Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
That’s left your homes an’ crossed the sea,
To try your fortune, bound or free,
All in this golden land.
For twelve long months I had to pace,
Humping my swag with a cadging face,
Sleeping in the bush, like the sable race,