The Drovers
By Henry Lawson
Shrivelled leather, rusty buckles, and the rot is in our knuckles,
Scorched for months upon the pommel while the brittle rein hung free;
Shrunken eyes that once were lighted with fresh boyhood, dull and blighted,
And the sores upon our eyelids are unpleasant sights to see.
And our hair is thin and dying from the ends, with too long lying
In the night dews on the ashes of the Dry Countree.
Yes, weve seen em bleaching whitely where the salt-bush sparkles brightly,
But their grins were over-friendly, so we passed and let them be.
And weve seen them rather recent, and weve stopped to hide em decent
When they werent nice to handle and they werent too nice to see;
We have heard the dry bones rattle under fifteen hundred cattle,
Seen the rags go up in dust-clouds and the brittle joints kicked free;
But theres little time to tarry, if you wish to live and marry,
When the cattle shy at something in the Dry Countree.
No, you neednt fear the blacks on the Never Never tracks,
For the Myall in his freedoms an uncommon sight to see;
Oh! we do not stick at trifles, and the trackers sneak their rifles,
And go strolling in the gloaming while the sergeants yarning free:
Round the Myalls creep the trackers, theres a sound like firing crackers
And, the blacks are getting scarcer in the Dry Countree.
(Goes an unprotected maiden-cross the clearing carrion-laden,
Oh they ride em down on horseback in the Dry Countree.)
But you dont know what might happen when a tank is but a trap on
Roofs of hell, and there is nothing but the blaze of hell to see;
And the phantom waters lapping, and no limb for saddle-strapping,
Better carry your revolver through the Dry Countree.
But Im feeling gay and frisky, come with me and have a whisky!
Change of hells is all we live for (thats my mate thats got D.T.);
We have fought through hells own weather, he and I and death together,
Oh, the devil grins to greet us from the Dry Countree!