While The Billy BoilsSearchOld coach-road West by Nor'-ward,Old mile-tree by the track:A dead branch pointing forward,And a dead branch pointing back.And still in clear-cut romansOn his hard heart he tellsThe miles that were to fortune,The miles from Bowenfels.Old chief of Western timber!A famous gum you've been.Old mile-tree, I rememberWhen all your boughs were green.
There came three boyish loversWhen golden days begun;There rode three boyish roversTowards the setting sun.And Fortune smiled her fairestAnd Fate to these was kind,The truest, best and rarest,The girls they'd left behind.By the camp-fire's dying emberThey dreamed of love and gold;Old mile-tree, I rememberWhen all our hearts were bold.
And when the wrecks of those daysWere sadly drifting back,There came a lonely swagmanAlong the dusty track;And save for limbs that trembled,For weak and ill was he,Old mile-tree, he resembledThe youngest of the three.Beneath you, dark and lonely,A wronged and broken manHe crouched, and sobbed as onlyThe strong heart broken can.The darkness wrapped the timber,The stars seemed dark o'erhead,Old mile-tree, I rememberWhen all green leaves seemed dead.