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-horse is trotting by his knee
Up Queensland way with cattle he travelled regions vast;
And many months have vanished since home-folk saw him last
He hums a song of someone he hopes to marry soon;
And hobble-chains and camp-ware keep jingling to the tune
Beyond the hazy dado against the lower skies
And yon blue line of ranges the homestead station lies
Thitherward the drover jogs through the lazy noon
While hobble-chains and camp-ware keep jingling to a tune
Instrumental
An hour has filled the heavens with storm-clouds inky black;
At times the lightning trickles around the drover's track;
But Harry pushes onward, his horses' strength he tries
In hope to reach the river before the flood shall rise
The thunder stealing o'er him goes rolling down the plain;
And sing on thirsty pastures in past the flashing rain
And every creek and gully sends forth its trival flood
The river runs with anger, 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 rivers when floods were at their height
Nor shall this gutter stop us from getting home to-night!"
Instrumental
The thunder growls a warning, the blue fork lightnings streaks
As the drover turns his horses to swim the fatal creek
But, oh! the flood runs stronger than 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-horse are struggling up the bank
But in the lonely homestead the girl shall wait in vain
He'll never pass the stations, in charge of stock again
The faithful dog a moment lies panting on the bank
And then pluges through the current to where his master sank
And round and round in circles he fights with failing strength
Till, ripped by wilder waters, he fails and sinks at length
O'er the flooded lowlands and slopes of sodden loam
The pack-horse struggles bravely, to take dumb tidings home
And mud-stained, wet, and weary, he goes by rock and tree
With flagon, chains and tinware are sounding eerily