On a lonely selection far out in the West <br />An old woman works all the day without rest, <br />And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome, <br />`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.' <br /> <br />She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs, <br />She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows, <br />And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack, <br />`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.' <br /> <br />It is five weary years since her old husband died; <br />And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed <br />`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can, <br />An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.' <br /> <br />Whenever the scowling old sundowners come, <br />And cunningly ask if the master's at home, <br />`Be off,' she replies, `with your blarney and cant, <br />Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.' <br /> <br />`Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear, <br />For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near; <br />But she says to herself, when she's like to despond, <br />That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond. <br /> <br />Ah, none of her children need follow the plough, <br />And some have grown rich in the city ere now; <br />Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done, <br />And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.'<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-the-children-come-home/
