So you reckon I'm over the hill you say;
That old man's finally done;
That brain beneath this snowy crown
has been dimmed by to much sun.
Though my step is slow, my tread is sure.
You can be sure of that,
And the life you have was not like mine
When I battled the Birdsville Track.
The walking stick that aids my gait
I thought would never come:
Replaced the whip of greenhide plait
Which mountain echoes sung.
Oh! I see your look of disbelief.
Pray do not hide your eyes.
Like you I gave that look
Which my father too despised.
"What's that old mate? A shout you say
Well that's really kind of you.
A beer would set this old frame right
And see this hot day through.
We'll brace the bar just you and I
And I'll paint for you a tale,
When I drove the famous Cobb and Co
And carried the royal mail.
So we sat together both age and youth
And we talked the clock around:
The youngster with his future fears:
The old with tails abound.
We talked until the barman's call
Sounded that time was done,
And staggered home with a swaying gait"
A father...And his son.
