From his home at Christmastime
They were Scots of the Riverina
And to run from home was a crime
The old man burned his letters
The first and last he burned
And he scratched his name
When his old wife's back was turned
A year went past and another
And the fruit went down the line
They heard the boy and he whistled,
but the old man made no sound
His name must never be mentioned
They were Scots of the Riverina,
With ever the Kirk hard line.
The boy came home on his final,
And the township's bonfire burned.
His mother's arms were about him,
but the old man's back was turned
The daughters begged for pardon,
till the old man raised his hand
I scarred off the riverina,
it was hard to understand
Where the bravest heroes died
But the old man plowed at daybreak
And the old man plowed till the murk
While his house folk went
The hurricane lamp in the rafters
And the old man died at the table
Face down on his bare arms folded
He sank with wild grey hair
Outspread o 'er the open Bible
And a name rewritten there