I WORKED with father in the bush
At splitting rails and palings.
He never was unkind to me,
Although he had his failings:
And now his grave is old and green,
And now at times Im rather
Inclined to think twas very mean
The way I treated father.
The mother had for years been dead,
And Dad and I and Stumpy
Were living in a little shed
What bushmen call a humpy;
And now I think when day began,
And it was cold and chilly,
Twas mean to see a grey old man
Get up and boil the billy.
And though my lazy limbs were stiff;
And though twas winter weather.
And though my eyes were shut as if
The lids were glued together,
I think twas mean to lie in bed;
I think that I was silly,
Because I growled if father said,
Git up and bile the billy!
I didnt help the cooking much
For I was always tired
Twas strange that I could eat with such
An appetite as I had;
But now I mind I never growled
When father shouted, Willie!
Its gittin on for dinnertime;
Go home and bile the hilly.
His grave is growing old and green
And things have altered rather;
But still I think twas mighty mean
The way I treated father.
He left a tidy sum to me,
But Id give all the money
To hear him say, Will you get up
And bile the billy, Sonny?
