The Freehold On The Plain

    (Air: The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.)


Im a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
    Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
    And Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

                                        Chorus

    The stockyards broken down, and the woolsheds tumbling in;
        Ive written to the mortgagees in vain;
    My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
        And Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
    When fortune followed in my train;
But I speculated heavy and Id have you all to know
    That Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

    Chorus: The stockyards broken down, &c.

I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
    Of her I have no reason to complain;
For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
    But Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

    Chorus: The stockyards broken down, &c.

And now I am compelled to take a drovers life,
    To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife
    We were happy on that freehold on the plain.

    Chorus: The stockyards broken down, &c.

Andrew Barton Paterson

Andrew Barton Paterson, also known as Banjo Paterson, was an Australian bush poet, journalist, and author. Renowned for his poignant and humorous depictions of rural Australia, he wrote iconic works like "Waltzing Matilda" and "The Man from Snowy River." His storytelling, deeply rooted in Australian culture, has cemented his legacy as one of the nation's most beloved literary figures.

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Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Broken-Down Squatter

    (Air: Its 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 Evas 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 hes nought for a boss
    But a broken-down squatter like me!

                                        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,

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Squatter Of The Olden Time

    (Air: A fine old English gentleman.)


Ill sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great
    Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose
    Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Old Bullock Dray

Oh! the shearing is all over,
    And the wool is coming down,
And I mean to get a wife, boys,
    When I go up to town.
Everything that has two legs
    Represents itself in view,
From the little paddy-melon
    To the bucking kangaroo.

                        CHORUS

    So its roll up your blankets,
        And lets make a push,
    Ill take you up the country,
        And show you the bush.
    Ill be bound you wont get
        Such a chance another day,
    So come and take possession
        Of my old bullock dray.

Now, Ive saved up a good cheque,
    I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a wife, boys,
    Ill be all-serene
For calling at the depôt.
    They say theres no delay
To get an off-side...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Squatters Man

Come, all ye lads an list to me,
Thats 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,
    As in my song youll understand.

Unto this country I did come,
A regular out-and-out new chum.
I then abhorred the sight of rum
    Teetotal was my plan.
But soon I learned to wet one eye
Misfortune oft-times made me sigh.
To raise fresh funds I was forced to fly,
    And be a squatters man.

Soon at a station I appeared.
I saw the squatter with his beard,
And up to him I boldly steered,
    With my swag and billy-can.

I said, Kind sir, I want a job!
Sai...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Eumerella Shore

Theres a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
    Where Ive lingered many happy hours away,
On my little free selection I have acres by the score,
    Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.

                                    Chorus

    To my bullocks then I say
    No matter where you stray,
        You will never be impounded any more;
    For youre running, running, running on the duffers piece of land,
        Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are shining bright,
    Then we saddle up our horses and away,
And we yard the squatters cattle in the darkness of the night,
    And we have the calves all branded by the day.

                                    Chorus

Andrew Barton Paterson

Billy Barlow In Australia

When I was at home I was down on my luck,
And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
But old aunt died, and left me a thousandOh, oh,
Ill start on my travels, said Billy Barlow.
        Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
        So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.

When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
Hed cattle and sheep past the colonys bounds,
Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
        Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
        He gammond the cash out of Billy Barlow.

When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
He said, My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.
        Oh dear, lack...

Andrew Barton Paterson