Pull down the old hut, d’ye say, girls,
That H.R.H. shan’t see
The common place that used to do,
Years by, for your mother and me?

No!—not for a dozen Princes,
Nor lords nor dukes beside,
Will I pull down the poor old hut,
Where your mother lived and died.

Oh, I know that it’s old and crazy,
I know that it’s shabby and mean;
But it’s going to stand as it is, girls,
And I won’t erect a screen

To shut out the rambling shingle hut
From sight of this handsome place.
I should feel as is I had closed
The door in your mother’s face.

So if H.R.H. don’t like that hut
Himself and his lordly pack
May hump their blueys and go their way
Out on the wallaby track.