It’s Really Not So Grand

This satirical poem by Paterson critiques various aspects of Australian society and politics in the early 20th century through the repeated ironic phrase “It’s grand.” Each stanza takes a mocking tone toward a different group or issue, ultimately building to the poet’s real plea for drought-relief rain.

Paterson begins by jesting at the struggles of rural workers like squatters, small farmers (“cockies”), and sheep shearers in the harsh Australian landscape. The blunt descriptions of dying livestock and barren homes satirize the romanticized notion of the courageous Aussie “battler.”

He then mocks the exploding rabbit population, portraying them as gluttonous pests. Shifting to city issues, Paterson jabs at politicians on “grand” speaking tours who offer only empty promises. He derides socialists, the unemployed, and demagogues who pander to the masses.

Finally, he laments government debt from misuse of English loans and the inadequate water infrastructure. The constant irony comes from the mundane struggles facing everyday Australians while politicians posture.

Paterson skewers both rural and urban issues, showing a society plagued by natural disasters, economic woes, and self-interest among the powerful. The simple rhyme scheme and vernacular phrases give the poem musicality and folksy charm.

While humorous on the surface, “It’s Grand” contains sharp social commentary on inequality, incompetence, and the complacency of those in power. Paterson’s witty satire unified the experiences of all Australians facing hardship. Only rain and relief from drought would make life truly “grand.”

It’s Grand

It’s grand to be a squatter
And sit upon a post,
And watch your little ewes and lambs
A-giving up the ghost.

It’s grand to be a “cockie”
With wife and kids to keep,
And find an all-wise Providence
Has mustered all your sheep.

It’s grand to be a Western man,
With shovel in your hand,
To dig your little homestead out
From underneath the sand.

It’s grand to be a shearer,
Along the Darling side,
And pluck the wool from stinking sheep
That some days since have died.

It’s grand to be a rabbit
And breed till all is blue,
And then to die in heaps because
There’s nothing left to chew.

It’s grand to be a Minister
And travel like a swell,
And tell the Central District folk
To go to—Inverell.

It’s grand to be a Socialist
And lead the bold array
That marches to prosperity
At seven bob a day.

It’s grand to be an unemployed
And lie in the Domain,
And wake up every second day—
And go to sleep again.

It’s grand to borrow English tin
To pay for wharves and Rocks,
And then to find it isn’t in
The little money-box.

It’s grand to be a democrat
And toady to the mob,
For fear that if you told the truth
They’d hunt you from your job.

It’s grand to be a lot of things
In this fair Southern land,
But if the Lord would send us rain,
That would, indeed, be grand!