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The Woollybutt Tree

Edward S. Sorenson

A tryst for a year was the woollybutt-tree,
    Where you have had many a spell;
To-night she may hear, as you feed by the Bree,
    And remember the sound of your bell;
Perhaps she’ll recall the love-vows that she made
    Five long years ago where we stand,
When I kissed her warm lips the last time in its shade,
    And you felt the soft pat of her hand.
Old horse, we have wandered and battled since then,
    Far north where the Gulf waters swirl,
And eastward and westward, by forest and glen,
    For the sake of a false little girl.

Yon needed no bridle o’er Billabong Bridge,     
    Nor a star through the timber to see,
O’er the Coolabah Flat and the Ironbark Ridge,
    On the way to the woollybutt-tree;
And you whinnied to her where its shadows were cast,
    On her shoulder you nestled your head
While we dreamed of a love that for ever would last—
    And that love is now faded and dead
I wonder, old horse, if you think of her still
    And miss the caress of her hand?
If you feel that the camp is now lonely and chill—
    Yet I wot she’s forgotten your brand.

The magnet has gone from the woollybutt-tree,
    Though the grass to your taste is as sweet
As any greensward that you cropped by the Bree
    That was brushed by her light-tripping feet.
But our way is afar where the cattlemen go
    To the place that’s called Never-come back;
And your night quarters 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 our woollybutt fairy is wed.

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