I-ve just received a letter from a chum in Maoriland,
He-s working down in Auckland where he days he-s doing grand,
The climate-s cooler there, but hearts are warmer, says my chum,
He sends the passage money, and he says I-d better come.
(I-d like to see his face again, I-d like to grip his hand),
He says he-s sure that I-ll get on first-rate in Maoriland.

An- tho- he makes the best of things (it always was his style),
You mostly get on better in a new land for a while,
An- when I see the fading line of my own native shore,
I-ll let it fade, and never want to see it anymore.
I-m tire of Sydney pavements, and the Western scrub and sand,
I-d rather fight my troubles for a change in Maoriland.

I-m off to make inquiries as to when the next boat sails,
I-m sick of all these colonies, but most of New South Wales,
An- if you meet a friend of mine who wants to find my track,
Say you, -He-s gone to Maoriland, and isn-t coming back�.
An- should it be the landlord or the rates, you understand,
Just say you-ll find him somewhere knocking round in Maoriland.