On a lonely selection far out in the West An old woman works all the day without rest, And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome, "Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home."
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She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs, She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows, And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack, "Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back."
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It is five weary years since her old husband died; And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed "Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can, An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man."
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When the Children Come Home
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