While The Billy BoilsSearchThrough the hush of my heart in the spell of its dreamingComes the song of a bush boy glad-hearted and free;Oh, the gullies are green where the sunlight is streaming,And the voice of that youngster is calling to me.
It is calling to me with a haunting insistence,And my feet wander off on a hoof-beaten track,Till I hear the old magpies away in the distanceWith a song of the morning that’s calling me back.
It is calling me back, for the dew’s on the clover,And the colours are mellow on mountain and tree;Oh, the gold has gone gray in the heart of the rover,And the bush in the sunshine is calling to me.
It is calling to me, though the breezes are tellingGay troubadour tales to the stars as they roam;For the tapers are lit in the humble old dwelling,And the love that it sheltered is calling me home.
It is calling me home—but the white road lies gleaming,And afar from it all must I tarry and dree;Just an echo far off, in the hush of my dreaming,Is the voice of a youngster that’s calling to me.