Tell a simple little story of a settler in the West,
Where the soldier birds and farmers, and selectors never rest
While the sun shinesand they often work in rainy weather, too:
But its all about a young man who had so much work to do.
One of Masons sons, Jim Mason, and the straightest of the lot,
(They were all straight for that matter) Jim was working for old Scott
(Scott that fired at Brummy Hughson, when the stick-ups used to be),
Jim was courting Mary Kelly down at Lowes, at Wilbertree.
Jim was trucking for a sawmill to make money for the home,
He was making, out of Mudgee, for the family to come,
And a load-chain snapped the switch-bar, and Black Anderson found Jim,
In the morning, in a creek-bed, with a log on top of him.
There was riding for the doctorjust the same old reckless race:
And a spring cart with a mattress came and took him from the place,
To the hospital at Gulgongbut they couldnt pull him through
And Jim said It seems a pityIhad so much work to do.
Theres the hutits close-up finished; and the forty acres fenced;
AndIve cleared enough for ploughin, but the dam is just commenced!
Then he saidand for a moment from the nurse his eyes he hid
But Im glad we wasnt married, for there might have been a kid.
That was allat least it wasnt for he didnt die until
He had fixed it up for Mary with a proper lawyer will,
And the Forty acre paddick, And I only hope, said he,
That shell get some decent feller when shes quite got over me.
Poor old broken-hearted Mason and his missus took their spell,
But another son and Mary finished Jims work very well.
They have grown-up sons and daughterssome on new selections, too,
And their hands and hearts are fitted for the work they have to do.
Now, my brothers! see the moral, lest the truth should come too late!
We are far too apt to quarrel with the writers fancied fate
Damn the Past! and leave to-morrow: millions are worse off than you!
Think, ere you would drown your sorrow, of the work that you should do.
Though the fates have seemed unkind to our unhappy brotherhood,
We are too apt to be blind to our great power to do good;
Many thousands, starved and stinted, for a line of comfort come,
We can write, and have it printedThey must suffer and be dumb.
Think not of the hours we wasted in oblivion foully won,
Or the bitter cups we tasted. Let us work! that, when lifes done,
We shall have in bush or city, shaped our future course so true
That theyll say It is a pitythey had so much more to do.