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THE bush was too lonely—the life was too slow,
And, Johnny, my son, to the city would go;
He knew that his father was lonely and grey,
And he might have gone there without running away.
There’s a bunk in the humpy—a glass on the shelf,
Which have never been used since he used them himself;
And that bunk in the humpy will stand till he comes
To his father’s old hut in the depth of the gums.
’Tis true that my temper was soured long ago,
But old men have sorrows that sons do not know;
I “jawed” him one day when my temper was stirred,
An’ he left his old father with never a word.
There’s a bunk in the humpy, &c.
Did he think it was kind—did he think it was right
To the lonely old man in the humpy that night?
Who sat with the sound of the rain in his ears,
And thought till his eyes ran a banker with tears?
There’s a bunk in the humpy, &c.
His mattress and pillow and bluey are there—
He’ll never sleep sounder on feathers, I’ll swear,
Or eat better stews than I warmed by the blaze
’Neath the old chimney gutter on cold, rainy days.
There’s a bunk in the humpy, &c.
An’ should he come back when the old man is out
He never need linger a moment in doubt:
He’ll know where the key of the padlock is hid,
An’ there’s grub in the gin-case for lifting the lid.
There’s a bunk in the humpy, &c.
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