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Henry Lawson - Ballad Of The Drover
Work rating: Medium

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`s 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 station homestead 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 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, pealing o`er him, 
 Goes rumbling down the plain; 
And sweet on thirsty pastures 
 Beats fast the plashing rain. 
And every creek and gully 
 Sends forth its tribute flood — 
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 rivers 
 When floods were at their height 
Nor shall this gutter stop us 
 From getting home to-night!" 
 
The thunder growls a warning, 
 The blue, forked lightnings gleam; 
The drover turns his horses 
 To swim the fatal stream. 
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 packhorse 
 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, 
Then plunges through the current 
 To where his master sank. 
And round and round in circles 
 He fights with failing strength, 
Till, gripped by wilder waters, 
 He fails and sinks at length. 
 
Across the flooded lowlands 
 And slopes of sodden loam 
The packhorse struggles bravely, 
 To take dumb tidings home. 
And mud-stained, wet, and weary, 
 He goes by rock and tree; 
With clanging chains and tinware 
 All sounding eerily.
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