While The Billy BoilsSearchOh, he was old and he was spare;His bushy whiskers and his hairWere all fussed up and very grey.He said he’d come a long, long wayAnd had a long, long way to go.Each boot was broken at the toe,And he’d a swag upon his back.His billy-can, as black as black,Was just the thing for making teaAt picnics, so it seemed to me.
’Twas hard to earn a bite of bread,He told me. Then he shook his head,And all the little corks that hungAround his hat-brim danced and swungAnd bobbed about his face; and whenI laughed he made them dance again.He said they were for keeping flies —“The pesky varmints” — from his eyes.He called me “Codger” . . . “Now you seeThe best days of your life,” said he.“But days will come to bend your back,And, when they come, keep off the track.Keep off, young codger, if you can.”He seemed a funny sort of man.
He told me that he wanted work,But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke,And he supposed he’d have to goAnother fifty mile or so.“Nigh all my life the track I’ve walked,”He said. I liked the way he talked.And oh, the places he had seen!I don’t know where he had not been —On every road, in every town,All through the country, up and down.“Young codger, shun the track,” he said.And put his hand upon my head.I noticed, then, that his old eyesWere very blue and very wise.“Ay, once I was a little lad,”He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.
I sometimes think: When I’m a man,I’ll get a good black billy-canAnd hang some corks around my hat,And lead a jolly life like that.