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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344009" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lost</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;He ought to be home,&quot; said the old man, &quot;without there's something amiss. <br>He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this. <br>He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way; <br>And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say? <br>&quot;He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; <br>And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. <br>But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away <br>He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, <br>And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; <br>And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: <br>&quot;What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, <br>The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; <br>For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, <br>And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, <br>Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; <br>And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey <br>Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, <br>&quot;Willie! where are you, Willie?&quot; But how can the dead reply; <br>And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, <br>God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; <br>For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. <br>The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by, <br>And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, <br>And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. <br>Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, <br>But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,&quot; she said. <br>But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead. <br>And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, <br>Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Andrew+Barton+Paterson">Andrew Barton Paterson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344009" data-title="Lost de Andrew Barton Paterson" data-description="&quot;He ought to be home,&quot; said the old man, &quot;without there's something amiss. 
He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this. 
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way; 
And, here, he's not back at s..."></div>
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