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Forgotten

Edward S. Sorenson

We will camp here to-night, ‘neath the woollybutt tree,
    And I’ll sleep where I parted from Nell;
Perhaps she will hear, as you feed by the Bree,
    And remember, the sound of your bell;
Perhaps she’ll recall the love vows that she made
    Just two years ago where we stand,
When I kissed her warm lips ‘neath the woollybutt’s shade,
    And you felt the soft pat of her hand.
Old horse we have wandered and battled since then,
    Far north’ard, where Gulf waters swirl,
And eastward and westward, by forest and glen—
    For the sake of a false little girl!

Across rugged mountains we’ve clambered and toiled,
    Through abysses and gorges we’ve roamed;
Your rock-tampered hoofs have been softened and soiled
    Where Roper’s flood waters have foamed;
‘Long the Logan we’ve drifted by station and town;
    With cattle away to the West;
We’ve crossed from the desert hills, stony and brown,
    And through Riverina in quest
Of feed for our stock when the drought fiend has been
    Supreme from the Frome to the sea;
While our thoughts have gone back to our home hillocks green,
    And the shade of the woollybutt tree.

Full often you’ve borne me o’er Billabong Bridge,
    Long after the sun had gone down,
O’er the Coolabah flat and the ironbark ridge,
    To eastward of Quandary town;
You whinnied when Nellie tripped under the stars,
    On her bosom you nestled your head,
While we dreamed of a love that could mock lock, and bars—
    And that love is now faded and dead!
I wonder, at times, if you think of her still,
    And miss the caress of her hand?
If you bring her before you as I do at will—
    Yet I wot she’s forgotten your brand!

‘Tis lonely, old horse, ‘neath the woollybutt tree,
    And the curlews cry sadly to-night;
You may pick the crowsfoot and the couch by the Bree,
    But we go by the first streak of light;
And we’ll steer for the sunset as straight as a crow
    Would wing it with drought at his back.
And your headquarters hence will be simply the glow
    Of the camp-fire that burns by the track;
For the wild runs are calling where perils are rife,
    Where never a woman was bred,
And adventure-cum-danger’s the acme of life,
    Since Nellie; our Nellie, is wed!

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