OLD coach-road West by Nor’-ward— br Old mile-tree by the track: br A dead branch pointing forward, br And a dead branch pointing back. br And still in clear-cut romans br On his hard heart he tells br The miles that were to fortune, br The miles from Bowenfels. br Old chief of Western timber! br A famous gum you’ve been. br Old mile-tree, I remember br When all your boughs were green. br br There came three boyish lovers br When golden days begun; br There rode three boyish rovers br Towards the setting sun. br And Fortune smiled her fairest br And Fate to these was kind— br The truest, best and rarest, br The girls they’d left behind. br By the camp-fire’s dying ember br They dreamed of love and gold; br Old mile-tree, I remember br When all our hearts were bold. br br And when the wrecks of those days br Were sadly drifting back, br There came a lonely swagman br Along the dusty track; br And save for limbs that trembled— br For weak and ill was he— br Old mile-tree, he resembled br The youngest of the three. br Beneath you, dark and lonely, br A wronged and broken man br He crouched, and sobbed as only br The strong heart broken can. br The darkness wrapped the timber, br The stars seemed dark o’erhead— br Old mile-tree, I remember br When all green leaves seemed dead.