In the Days When the World Was Wide, and Other Verses

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 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 from above him
  Goes rolling o'er 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;
 '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 ghastly lightnings gleam,
 As 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 pack-horse
  Are struggling up the bank.
 But in the lonely homestead
  The girl will wait in vain —
 He'll 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 someone's eyes are saddened,
  And someone's heart still bleeds
 In sorrow for the drover
  Who sleeps among the reeds.