While The Billy BoilsSearchI worked with father in the bushAt 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 I'm ratherInclined to think 'twas very meanThe way I treated father.
The mother had for years been dead,And Dad and I and StumpyWere 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 manGet up and boil the billy.
And though my lazy limbs were stiff;And though 'twas winter weather.And though my eyes were shut as ifThe 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 didn't help the cooking muchFor I was always "tired"--'Twas strange that I could eat with suchAn appetite as I had;But now I mind I never growledWhen father shouted, "Willie!It's gittin' on for dinnertime;Go home and bile the hilly."
His grave is growing old and greenAnd things have altered rather;But still I think 'twas mighty meanThe way I treated father.He left a tidy sum to me,But I'd give all the moneyTo hear him say, "Will you get upAnd bile the billy, Sonny?"