The Ballad of the Drover

Across the stony ridges,Across the rolling plain,Young Harry Dale, the drover,Comes riding home again.And well his stock-horse bears him,And light of heart is he,And stoutly his old pack-horseIs trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattleHe travelled regions vast;And many months have vanishedSince home-folk saw him last.He hums a song of someoneHe hopes to marry soon;And hobble-chains and camp-wareKeep jingling to the tune.

Beyond the hazy dadoAgainst the lower skiesAnd yon blue line of rangesThe homestead station lies.And thitherward the droverJogs through the lazy noon,While hobble-chains and camp-wareAre jingling to a tune.

An hour has filled the heavensWith storm-clouds inky black;At times the lightning tricklesAround the drover's track;But Harry pushes onward,His horses' strength he tries,In hope to reach the riverBefore the flood shall rise.

The thunder from above himGoes rolling o'er the plain;And down on thirsty pasturesIn torrents falls the rain.And every creek and gullySends forth its little flood,Till the river runs a banker,All stained with yellow mud.

Now Harry speaks to Rover,The best dog on the plains,And to his hardy horses,And strokes their shaggy manes;'We've breasted bigger riversWhen floods were at their heightNor shall this gutter stop usFrom getting home to-night!'

The thunder growls a warning,The ghastly lightnings gleam,As the drover turns his horsesTo swim the fatal stream.But, oh! the flood runs strongerThan e'er it ran before;The saddle-horse is failing,And only half-way o'er!

When flashes next the lightning,The flood's grey breast is blank,And a cattle dog and pack-horseAre struggling up the bank.But in the lonely homesteadThe girl will wait in vain --He'll never pass the stationsIn charge of stock again.

The faithful dog a momentSits panting on the bank,And then swims through the currentTo where his master sank.And round and round in circlesHe fights with failing strength,Till, borne down by the waters,The old dog sinks at length.

Across the flooded lowlandsAnd slopes of sodden loamThe pack-horse struggles onward,To take dumb tidings home.And mud-stained, wet, and weary,Through ranges dark goes he;While hobble-chains and tinwareAre sounding eerily.

The floods are in the ocean,The stream is clear again,And now a verdant carpetIs stretched across the plain.But someone's eyes are saddened,And someone's heart still bleedsIn sorrow for the droverWho sleeps among the reeds.