Weary old wife, with the bucket and cow,
‘How's your son Jack? and where is he now?'
Haggard old eyes that turn to the west--
‘Boys will be boys, and he's gone with the rest!'
Grief without tears and grief without sound;
‘Somewhere up-country he's knocking around.'
Knocking around with a vagabond crew,
Does for himself what a mother would do;
Maybe in trouble and maybe hard-up,
Maybe in want of a bite or a sup;
Dead of the fever, or lost in the drought,
Lonely old mother! he's knocking about.
Wiry old man at the tail of the plough,
‘Heard of Jack lately? and where is he now?'
Pauses a moment his forehead to wipe,
Drops the rope reins while he feels for his pipe,
Scratches his grey head in sorrow or doubt:
‘Somewhere or other he's knocking about.'