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-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.     And thitherward the drover     Jogs through the lazy noon,     While hobble-chains and camp-ware     Are jingling to a tune.     An hour has filled the heavens     With storm-clouds inky black;     At times the lightning trickles     Around the drovers track;     But Harry pushes onward,     His horses strength he tries,     In hope to reach the river     Before the flood shall rise.     The thunder from above him     Goes rolling oer the plain;     And down on thirsty pastures     In torrents falls the rain.     And every creek and gully     Sends 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;     Weve breasted bigger rivers     When floods were at their height     Nor shall this gutter stop us     From getting home to-night!     The thunder growls a warning,     The ghastly lightnings gleam,     As the drover turns his horses     To swim the fatal stream.     But, oh! the flood runs stronger     Than eer it ran before;     The saddle-horse is failing,     And only half-way oer!     When flashes next the lightning,     The floods grey breast is blank,     And a cattle dog and pack-horse     Are struggling up the bank.     But in the lonely homestead     The girl will wait in vain,     Hell never pass the stations     In charge of stock again.     The faithful dog a moment     Sits panting on the bank,     And then swims through the current     To where his master sank.     And round and round in circles     He fights with failing strength,     Till, borne down by the waters,     The old dog sinks at length.     Across the flooded lowlands     And slopes of sodden loam     The pack-horse struggles onward,     To take dumb tidings home.     And mud-stained, wet, and weary,     Through ranges dark goes he;     While hobble-chains and tinware     Are sounding eerily.     .         .         .         .         .     The floods are in the ocean,     The stream is clear again,     And now a verdant carpet     Is stretched across the plain.     But someones eyes are saddened,     And someones heart still bleeds     In sorrow for the drover     Who sleeps among the reeds.