I WORKED with father in the bush <br />At splitting rails and palings. <br />He never was unkind to me, <br />Although he “had his failings:” <br />And now his grave is old and green, <br />And now at times I’m rather <br />Inclined to think ’twas very mean <br />The way I treated father. <br /> <br />The mother had for years been dead, <br />And Dad and I and Stumpy <br />Were living in a little shed— <br />What bushmen call a humpy; <br />And now I think when day began, <br />And it was cold and chilly, <br />’Twas mean to see a grey old man <br />Get up and boil the billy. <br /> <br />And though my lazy limbs were stiff; <br />And though ’twas winter weather. <br />And though my eyes were shut as if <br />The lids were glued together, <br />I think ’twas mean to lie in bed; <br />I think that I was silly, <br />Because I growled if father said, <br />“Git up and bile the billy!” <br /> <br />I didn’t help the cooking much <br />For I was always “tired”— <br />’Twas strange that I could eat with such <br />An appetite as I had; <br />But now I mind I never growled <br />When father shouted, “Willie! <br />It’s gittin’ on for dinnertime; <br />Go home and bile the hilly.” <br /> <br />His grave is growing old and green <br />And things have altered rather; <br />But still I think ’twas mighty mean <br />The way I treated father. <br />He left a tidy sum to me, <br />But I’d give all the money <br />To hear him say, “Will you get up <br />And bile the billy, Sonny?”<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-way-i-treated-father-a-bush-song/
