The Bushfeller.

Lord, mind your trees to-day
My man is out there clearing.
God send the chips fly safe.
My heart is always fearing.
And let the axehead hold!
My dreams are all of felling;
He earns our bread far back
And then there is no telling.
If he came home at nights,
We'd know, but it is only—
We might not even hear—
A man could lie there lonely.
God, let the trunks fall clear,
He did not choose his calling;
He's young and full of life—
A tree is heavy, falling.

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