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Under the Wattle Tree

Edward S. Sorenson

A stout and ancient wattle stands
Over on Kipparee,
That rev’rence and respect commands
Of bushmen, and of station hands,
For things that hapt upon the sands
Under that wattle tree.

A famished tramp had lost his way,
Weary and wan was he,
As laughed aloud the mocking jay.
Upon the hard, cold earth he lay,
And dreamed of a bygone, better day
Under the wattle tree.

Again he played by his father’s door,
Laughing aloud with glee,
His mother’s hand caressed once more
The head she wet with tears before
He left to suffer and deplore
Under the wattle tree.

He sees again his Nellie’s face—
Gentle and fair was she!
The lapse of years had failed t’ efface
The memory of that loved one’s place.
He smiles; she’s clasped in his embrace
Under the wattle tree.

A drover thro’ the midnight dire
Galloped across the lea;
The sleeper stirred in his scant attire
As tho’ he knew ‘twas Nellie’s sire
Who stayed for warmth at his flickering fire
Under the wattle tree.

Since he began his wild career
Others had crossed the sea.
Now Nellie dwelt on a hillock clear,
Whence he her welcome call might hear
If she but knew he slumbered near,
Under the wattle tree.

There she had seen a ragged score
Making their evening tea;
Soiled miners seeking golden ore,
Old shepherds, stockmen—tramps galore
Had camped and slumbered oft before
Under the wattle tree.

They told strange tales of ancient men,
Many a pang did dree;
Of cattle stations, mount, and glen,
Of haunted huts, a “hatter’s den,”
Dread bunyips and a “Devil’s Ten.”
Under the wattle tree.

And settlers tell throughout the land
Legends that may not be—
How one was killed by a black man’s hand,
Whose ghost at midnight walks the sand,
To vanish with his gruesome wand
Under the wattle tree.

Went lovers through these emerald bowers,
Strolling so happily,
In other and wilder times than ours,
Where Nellie ‘spies the opening flowers,
Remembering sweet and happy hours
Under the wattle tree.

‘Tis even again— the tramp is gone,
Nothing is there to see,
‘But smouldering fire that all night shone,
Some logs of wood—a half-charred bone,
Where he had slept that night alone
Under the wattle tree.

Then something gleaming caught her eye,
Resting upon her knee,
She brushed aside the dead leaves dry;
And, seeing a relic of days gone by,
She uttered a low and startled cry
Under the wattle tree.

It was a locket old and rare
Carried across the sea,
That held a tress and a picture fair—
Her own sweet face and nut-brown hair—
He’d treasured for years—forgotten there
Under the wattle tree.

The parrots hopped among the trees,
Singing so glad and free;
The lowing of herds on distant leas
Came sad and sweet on the gentle breeze—
She heard them all on her bended knees
Under the wattle tree.

The dusk approached, no voices spoke,
Homeward the birds did flee.
Fanned by the wind the fire awoke,
Up towards the Heavens curled the smoke,
And only a sob the silence broke
Under the wattle tree.

The night closed in, the maiden kept
Vigil still silently.
She’d dried her eyes, no longer wept,
But swayed and dozed; and when she slept,
A dusky form’ from the thicket crept
Under the wattle tree.

The log-fire blazed with a crackling sound,
Showing like ebony.
In the circle of light it cast around
The figure standing upon the ground
Beside the maiden sleeping sound
Under the wattle tree.

He lifts on high his deadly spear,
Quivering his sinews—see!
O God, awake! Is no one near?
A shot is heard—she starts in fear,
As groaning falls the savage near,
Under the wattle tree.

She from the spot affrighted flies,
Venting a loud coo-ee!
Her flight is stayed; a voice replies,
“Fear nothing, maid, and cease thy cries,
The spear is grounded, the black man dies
Under the wattle tree.”

“Why art thou here, thou ragged knight,
Shooting on Kipparee?”
“An’ I’d been far thou’dst died this night.”
His finger points to the heathen wight,
“I come in search of a trinket bright
Under the wattle tree.”

“In sooth then wouldst I know thy tale—
Stranger thou seemest to me,
Yet may be thou dost know a dale
Where bideth one called Nellie Dale.
Art thou Will Dare who stand’st so pale
Under the wattle tree?”

“I am indeed by name Will Dare,
Nellie is dear to me;
An I could find that trinket rare,
I’d show thee a tress of her own brown hair—
I treasured it long, and lost it there,
Under the wattle tree.”

“Not for the gems that I did find
Yonder on Kipparee
Would I appear to her unkind,
To let the thought disturb her mind
That I had left her gift behind
Under the wattle tree.”

“Twas Heaven’s will that pain and care
Longer we should not dree.
And so was lost that trinket rare,
My image held, and my own brown hair—
That I might meet my Willie Dare
Under the wattle tree.”

“Then this I vow to Him above,
Never again from thee
Will I as I did in past years rove.
And this I’ll prize, thro’ wood and groove,
That brought me back to my true love
Under the wattle tree.

“It was a Godly gift, I wis.
Nellie, this is thy fee”
His lips met hers in a fervent kiss;
So dawned the life of eternal bliss,
And they feared no more the black man’s hiss
Under the wattle tree

Long years have passed, old drovers tell
Legends that may not be—
Weird voices break the midnight spell;
A maid runs screaming from the dell,
And groans are heard where the blackman fell
Under the wattle tree.

Edward S. Sorenson

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