Oddly enough, there's an older version. From Songs of the British Music Hall by Peter Davison (New York: Oak Publications, 1971), page 208-210:


WE ALL GO TO WORK BUT FATHER
Words and music by Leslie Reed.
London: Francis, Day & Hunter, 1891.
Sung by J. C. Heffron.

1. Oh! we are a happy fam'ly and I mention it with pride—
There's father, mother, me and sister Fan.
It would be quite a model group that meets around our fireside
But father he is such a lazy man.
He has not done a day's work since the morning he was wed,
And that is five-and-twenty years ago.
No thought of work, in fact, has ever got into his head.
He's the laziest man I ever yet did know.

SPOKEN: Lazy! Why, he's bone idle! Never does anything at all. I wouldn't care if we set him a bad example, but we don't. In fact—

CHORUS: We all go to work but father and he stays at home all day.
He sits by the fire with a quart of beer and he smokes a ten-inch clay.
Mother works at the wash-tub. So does my sister Fan.
I've met lazy men in my time, now and then, but a champion is our old man.

2. He's in three sick societies, and that's the reason why
He vows to work he never will turn out.
He groans about his liver, then he'll hug his big toe and cry,
"Good gracious! Here's my old complaint, the gout!"
It seems at work he wasn't worth above a pound a week,
Though his was always "a very trying job."
And so each club in turn he patronizes, so to speak,
By receiving just its merry thirty bob.

SPOKEN: Yes, he belongs to the "Anti-work-yourself-to-death Association." He's the secretary of it. Ah! and he abides by the rules to the very letter, and that's one reason why—

CHORUS

3. When the brokers vowed one day they'd come, because we owed some rent,
Dear mother said, "We'd better shoot the moon."
We packed the goods upon a truck. At twelve at night we went,
But father was an obstinate old coon.
He wouldn't move an inch. He wouldn't let us take his chair,
So that we left him there you may rely.
He said our heartless conduct should be punished, I declare,
But we banged the door and shouted out, "Goodbye!"—

SPOKEN: There's cheek for you! "Our heartless conduct," "miss him when he's gone," and so on! But HE didn't stop long. When we'd got the new place cosy—all the pictures hung, carpets down and bedsteads fixed, a knocking came at the street door, and there were two boys, with father stuck on his chair, and two long poles shoved underneath, like Guy Fawkes. He'd just waited till he thought all the work was done, and then he gave the boys two pence to bring him home. I wouldn't care if he did something sometimes, but he doesn't.

He was standing outside our door one day with his hands in his pockets, when a gentleman asked him the way to the post office. Just to show how lazy he is, he pointed with his foot and said, "Up there." The gentleman said, "If you can show me a lazier trick than that, I'll give you half-a-crown." Our old man replied, "Alright, come and put it in my waistcoat pocket." I expect when he's pegging out he'll want somebody else to draw his last breath for him. So now you can believe me when I say—

CHORUS

[Anybody heard the term "sick society" before? I assume it's some sort of fraternal insurance plan.]