While The Billy BoilsSearchThe stamp of Scotland is on his face,But he sailed to the South a lad,And he does not think of the black bleak hillsAnd the bitter hard youth he had;He thinks of a nearer and dearer pastIn the bright land far away,When the teams went up and the teams came down,In the days when they made bush hay.
The fare was rough and the bush was grimIn the “years of his pilgrimage”,But he gained the strength that is still with himIn his hale, late middle age.He thinks of the girl at the halfway innThey use as a barn to-day—Oh, she was a dumpling and he was thinIn the days when they made bush hay.
The ration teams to the Bathurst PlainsWere often a fortnight full.And they branched all ways in the early daysAnd back to the port with wool.They watched for the lights of old Cobb & Co.That flashed to the West away,When drivers drove six on a twelve-mile stageIn the days when they made bush hay.
He has made enough, and he’s sold his claim,And he goes by the morning train,From the gold-field town in the sultry WestTo his home by the sea again,Where a bustling old body’s expecting himWhose hair is scarcely grey,And she was the girl of the halfway houseIn the days when they made bush hay.