Recently in Droving Category

'Only a pound,' said the auctioneer,
'Only a pound; and I'm standing here
Selling this animal, gain or loss.
Only a pound for the drover's horse;
One of the sort that was never afraid,
One of the boys of the Old Brigade;
Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear,
Only a little the worse for wear;
Plenty as bad to be seen in town,
Give me a bid and I'll knock him down;
Sold as he stands, and without recourse,
Give me a bid for the drover's horse.'

Loitering there in an aimless way
Somehow I noticed the poor old grey,
Weary and battered and screwed, of course,
Yet when I noticed the old grey horse,
The rough bush saddle, and single rein
Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane,
Straightway the crowd and the auctioneer
Seemed on a sudden to disappear,
Melted away in a kind of haze,
For my heart went back to the droving days.

Back to the road, and I crossed again
Over the miles of the saltbush plain --
The shining plain that is said to be
The dried-up bed of an inland sea,
Where the air so dry and so clear and bright
Refracts the sun with a wondrous light,
And out in the dim horizon makes
The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes.

At dawn of day we would feel the breeze
That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees,
And brought a breath of the fragrance rare
That comes and goes in that scented air;
For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain
A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain.
For those that love it and understand,
The saltbush plain is a wonderland.
A wondrous country, where Nature's ways
Were revealed to me in the droving days.

We saw the fleet wild horses pass,
And the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass,
The emu ran with her frightened brood
All unmolested and unpursued.
But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub
When the dingo raced for his native scrub,
And he paid right dear for his stolen meals
With the drover's dogs at his wretched heels.
For we ran him down at a rattling pace,
While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase.
And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise --
We were light of heart in the droving days.

'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again
Made a move to close on a fancied rein.
For I felt the swing and the easy stride
Of the grand old horse that I used to ride
In drought or plenty, in good or ill,
That same old steed was my comrade still;
The old grey horse with his honest ways
Was a mate to me in the droving days.

When we kept our watch in the cold and damp,
If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp,
Over the flats and across the plain,
With my head bent down on his waving mane,
Through the boughs above and the stumps below
On the darkest night I could let him go
At a racing speed; he would choose his course,
And my life was safe with the old grey horse.
But man and horse had a favourite job,
When an outlaw broke from a station mob,
With a right good will was the stockwhip plied,
As the old horse raced at the straggler's side,
And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise,
We could use the whip in the droving days.

'Only a pound!' and was this the end --
Only a pound for the drover's friend.
The drover's friend that had seen his day,
And now was worthless, and cast away
With a broken knee and a broken heart
To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart.
Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame
And the memories dear of the good old game.

'Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that!
Against you there in the curly hat!
Only a guinea, and one more chance,
Down he goes if there's no advance,
Third, and the last time, one! two! three!'
And the old grey horse was knocked down to me.
And now he's wandering, fat and sleek,
On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek;
I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall,
But he does a journey to beat them all,
For though he scarcely a trot can raise,
He can take me back to the droving days.

First published in The Bulletin, 20 June 1891, and again in the same magazine on 23-30 December 1980;
and later in
The Man From Snowy River and Other Verses by A.B. Paterson, 1895;
The Collected Verse of A.B. Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1982;
Singer of the Bush, A.B. (Banjo) Paterson: Complete Works 1885-1900 compiled by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie, 1983;
A.B. Paterson's Off Down the Track: racing and other years edited by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie, 1986;
A Vision Splendid: The Complete Poetry of A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1990;
Selected Poems: A. B. Paterson compiled by Les Murray, 1992;
The Collected Verse of Banjo Paterson edited by Clement Semmler, 1993;
Banjo Paterson: His Poetry and Prose compiled by Richard Hall, 1993;
The Advertiser, 26 January 1994; and
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.
     Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide
Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd,
     All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.
The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense,
     The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp;
I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence,
     I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp.
We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze,
     And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth;
To southward lay "Katawa", with the sandpeaks all ablaze,
     And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.
Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm,
     And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff;
From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm,
     You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough.
Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place
     Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch;
'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase
     Eight years ago -- or was it nine? -- last March.

'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass,
     To wander as we've wandered many a mile,
And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass,
     Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while.
'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,
     To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,
With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs;
     Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!

Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang,
     When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat;
How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang
     To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat".
Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath,
     Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd;
And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath!
     And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd!

We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey,
     And the troopers were three hundred yards behind,
While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay,
     In the creek with stunted box-tree for a blind!
There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse to horse,
     And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd;
He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse --
     A narrow shave -- his powder singed your beard!
In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young
     Come back to us; how clearly I recall
Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung;
     And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall?
Aye! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school,
     Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone;
Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule,
     It seems that you and I are left alone.

There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards,
     It matters little what became of him;
But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards,
     And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim.

And Mostyn -- poor Frank Mostyn -- died at last a fearful wreck,
     In "the horrors", at the Upper Wandinong,
And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck,
     Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!
Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen --
     The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead.
Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then;
     And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.

I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil,
     And life is short -- the longest life a span;
I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil,
     Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.
For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain,
     'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know --
I should live the same life over, if I had to live again;
     And the chances are I go where most men go.

The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim,
     The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall;
And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim,
     And on the very sun's face weave their pall.
Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave,
     With never stone or rail to fence my bed;
Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave,
     I may chance to hear them romping overhead.

First published in Colonial Monthly, 29 January 1870;
and later in
The Queenslander, 20 September 1879;
Australian Ballads and Rhymes: Poems Inspired by Life and Scenery in Australia and New Zealand edited by Douglas Sladen, 1888;
A Century of Australian Song edited by Douglas Sladen, 1888;
The Golden Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1909;
The Lone Hand, October 1912;
Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes by Adam Lindsay Gordon,1914;
The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse edited by Walter Murdoch, 1918;
Selections from the Australian Poets edited by Bertram Stevens, 1925;
New Song in an Old Land edited by Rex Ingamells, 1943;
Australian Bush Songs and Ballads edited by Will Lawson, 1944;
Favourite Australian Poems edited by Ian Mudie, 1963;
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;
Old Australian Ballads edited by W. N. Walker, 1967;
The Penguin Book of Australian Verse edited by Harry Heseltine, 1972;
The Collins Book of Australian Poetry compiled by Rodney Hall, 1981;
A Treasury of Colonial Poetry, 1982;
The Illustrated Treasury of Australian Verse compiled by Beatrice Davis, 1984;
Old Ballads from the Bush edited by Bill Scott, 1987;
A Collection of Australian Bush Verse, 1989;
The Macmillan Anthology of Australian Literature edited by Ken L. Goodwin and Alan Lawson, 1990;
The Poet's Discovery: Nineteenth Century Australia in Verse edited by Richard Douglas Jordan and Peter Pierce, 1990;
A Treasury of Bush Verse edited by G.A. Wilkes, 1991;
On the Track with Bill Bowyang: With Australian Bush Recitations edited by Dawn Anderson, 1991-1992;
The Penguin Book of 19th Century Australian Literature edited by Michael Ackland, 1993;
The Penguin Book of Australian Ballads edited by Elizabeth Webby and Philip Butterrs, 1993;
The Romance of the Stockman: The Lore, Legend and Literature of Australia's Outback Heroes, 1993;
The Arnold Anthology of Post-Colonial Literatures in English edited by John Thieme, 1996;
Australian Verse: An Oxford Anthology edited by John Leonard 1998;
Our Country: Classic Australian Poetry: From the Colonial Ballads to Paterson & Lawson edited by Michael Cook, 2004;
The Sick Stockrider and The Swimmer by Adam Lindsay Gordon, 2007;
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007;
Sixty Classic Australian Poems edited by Geoff Page, 2009;
The Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry edited by John Kinsella, 2009;
Macquarie PEN Anthology of Australian Literature edited by Nicholas Jose, Kerryn Goldsworthy, Anita Heiss, David McCooey, Peter Minter, Nicole Moore and Elizabeth Webby, 2009; and
The Puncher & Wattmann Anthology of Australian Poetry edited by John Leonard, 2009.

Author: Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833-70) was born at Fayal in the Azores where his mother's father had a plantation. He completed his education in England and was sent by his family to South Australia in 1853 where he enlisted in the mounted police. He was briefly a member of Parliament and lived in Western Australia and Ballarat before moving to Melbourne. During his time in Ballarat he suffered a severe head injury in a riding accident, was bankrupted by a fire in the livery stable and lost his infant daughter. The day after the publication of his poems in Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes he committed suicide on Brighton Beach in Melbourne. He is the only Australian poet to be honoured with a bust in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey in London.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Fleet-footed wild scrub cattle
   Come down the spurs a-swing,
While clustering dead ferns rattle,
   And vines to long horns cling.
Our nags, with saddles creaking,
   Wheel round the ringing mob,  
Their heaving flanks a-reeking,    
   Their eager hearts a-throb.

No fence is there to hold them,
   They tread on broken ground,
Where brush and scrubs enfold them,
   With billabongs around;
And while the whips are swinging,  
   Among the trees they tramp,
To lusty voices ringing
   Across the grassy camp.

Ten thousand horns are clashing,
   And tossing to and fro,
A hundred colours flashing,
   As round and round they go;
And high above the lowing
   The rounding riders shout,
As through the timber glowing,
   They wheel the "breakers-out."

The old camp-nags go quietly,
   And yet with reefing heads,
Where horns and hides gleam whitely,
   Among the roans and reds;
And, knowing as their riders,
   They "fix" the wanted steer,
With shoulder-butts and "siders,"
   They drive the rebel clear.

They've drafted in the ranges,  
   They've cut out on the flats;
They've run the wild scrub strangers,
   And blocked the station rats;
They need no reins to guide them,  
   Where mustered cattle tramp,
As well as those who ride them
   They know the work on camp.

Then let the wild scrub cattle
   Come down the spurs a-swing,
Where honeysuckles rattle,
   And running stockwhips ring;
The old camp-nags will meet them --
   Old warriors staunch and true!
And on the camps will greet them,
   And put the beggars through.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 17 December 1902

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Store cattle from Nelanjie! The mob, goes feeding past,
With half-a-mile of sandhill 'twixt the leaders and the last;
The nags that move behind them are the good old Queensland stamp ---
Short backs and perfect shoulders that are price-less on a camp;
And these are men that ride them, broad-chested, tanned and tall,
The bravest hearts amongst us and the lightest hands of all.
Oh! let them wade in Wonga grass and taste the Wonga dew,
And let them spread, those thousand head --- for we've been droving too!

Store cattle from Nelanjie! By half-a-hundred towns,
By Northern ranges rough and red, by rolling open downs,
By stock-routes brown and burnt and bare, by flood-wrapped river-bends,
They've bunted them from gate to gate --- the drover has no friends;
But idly they may ride to-day beneath the scorching sun
And let the hungry bullocks try the grass on Wonga run;
No overseer dogs them here to "see the cattle through,"
But they may spread their thousand head --- for we've been droving too!

Store cattle from Nelanjie! They've a naked track to steer,
The stockyards at Wodonga are a long way down from here;
The creeks won't run till God knows when, and half the holes are dry,
The tanks are few and far between and water's dear to buy:
There's plenty at the Brolga Bore for all his stock and mine ---
We'll pass him with a brave God-speed across the Border Line,
And if he goes a five-mile stage and loiters slowly through,
We'll only think the more of him --- for we've been droving too!
 
Store cattle from Nelanjie! They're mute as milkers now,
But yonder grizzled drover, with the care-lines on his brow,
Could tell of merry musters on the big Nelanjie plains,
With blood upon the chestnut's flanks and foam upon the reins;
Could tell of nights upon the road when those same mild-eyed steers
Went ringing round the river bend and through the scrub like spears
And if his words are rude and rough, we know his words are true,
We know what wild Nelanjies are --- and we've been droving too!
 
Store cattle from Nelanjie! Around the fire at night
They've watched the pine-tree shadows lift before the dancing light;
They've lain awake to listen when the weird bush-voices speak,
And heard the lilting bells go by along the empty creek;
They've spun the yarns of hut and camp, the tales of play and work,
The wond'rous tales that gild the road from Normanton to Bourke;
They've told of fortune foul and fair, of women false and true,
And well we know the songs they've sung --- for we've been droving too!

Store cattle from Nelanjie! Their breath is on the breeze;
You hear them tread, a thousand head, in blue-grass to the knees;
The lead is on the netting-fence, the wigps are spreading wide,
The lame end laggard scarcely move- so slow the drovers ride.
But let them stay and feed to-day for sake of Auld Lang Syne;
They'll never get a chance like this below the Border Line;
And if they tread our frontage down, What's that to me or you
What's ours to fare, by God they'll share! for we've been droving too!

First published in The Bulletin, 14 December 1895;
and later in
The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse edited by Walter Murdoch, 1924;
Selections from Australian Poets edited by Bertram Stevens, 1925;
New Song in an Old Land edited by Rex Ingamells, 1943;
Spoils of Time: Some Poems of the English Speaking Peoples edited by Rex Ingamells, 1948;
Fair Girls and Grey Horses: With Other Verses by Will H. Ogilvie, 1958;
Favourite Australian Poems edited by Ian Mudie, 1963;
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;
This Land: An Anthology of Australian Poetry for Young People edited by M. M. Flynn and J. Groom, 1968;
The Drovers edited by Keith Wiley, 1982;
My Country: Australian Poetry and Short Stories, Two Hundred Years edited by Leonie Kramer, 1985;
Old Ballads from the Bush edited by Bill Scott, 1987;
Will Ogilvie: Balladist of Border and Bush by George T. Ogilvie, 1994;
Breaker's Mate: Will Ogilvie in Australia edited by John Meredith, 1996;
ReCollecting Albury Writing: Poetry and Prose from Albury and District 1859 to 2000 edited by Jane Downing and Dirk H.R. Spennemann, 2000; and
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

With pannikins all rusty,
   And billy bent and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
   That scarcely hide his back;
With sun crack'd saddle-leather,
   And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burn'd brown with weather,
   Our Andy's home again!

His unkempt hair is faded
   Through sleeping in the wet;
He's looking old and jaded;
   But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets,
   But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
   Our Andy's home once more!   

With tales of flood and famine,
   On distant northern tracts,
And shady yarns, "baal gammon!"
   Of dealings with the blacks;   
From where the skies hang lazy
   Above the northern plain
From regions dim and hazy  
   Our Andy's home again!

Old Uncle's bright and cheerful;
   He wears a smiling face.
And Aunty's never tearful
   Now Andy's round the place.
Old " Blucher " barks for gladness;
   He broke his rusty chain,  
And leapt in joyous madness
   When Andy came again.

His toil is nearly over;
   He'll soon enjoy his gains.
Not long he'll be a drover,
   And cross the lonely plains.
We'll happy be for ever
   When he'll no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river  
   Will make us all a home.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 24 November 1888, and again in the same newspaper on 13 July 1889 and 25 November 1903;
and later in
The Dawn, 1 November 1902;
When I was King and Other Verses by Henry Lawson, 1905;
A Camp-Fire Yarn: Henry Lawson Complete Works 1885-1900 edited by Leonard Cronin, 1984;
Henry Lawson: An Illustrated Treasury compiled by Glenys Smith, 1985;
A Collection of Australian Bush Verse, 1989; and
Classic Australian Verse edited by Maggie Pinkney, 2001.

Note: this poem is a sequel to Andy's Gone With Cattle, published here on 13 October 2011.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library, The Poetry of Henry Lawson website

See also.

Our Andy's gone to battle now
   'Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
Our Andy's gone with cattle now
   Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now;
   Our hearts with him are roving.
It's dull on this selection now --
   Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face
   In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
   When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
   When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
   Since Andy cross'd the Darling.

The gates are out of order now,
   Each wind the riders rattle;
For far far across the border now
   Our Andy's gone with cattle.

Poor Aunty's looking thin and white;
   And Uncle's cross with worry;
And poor old "Blucher" howls all night
   Since Andy left Macquarie.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
   And all the dams run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
  In pathways of the drover!

And may good angels send the rain
   On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
   God grant 'twill bring us Andy.

First published in Australian Town And Country Journal, 13 October 1888, and again in the same newspaper on 1 December 1888, 13 July 1889, and 18 November 1903;
and later in
The Bulletin, 22 February 1896;
In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses by Henry Lawson, 1900;
Songs from Lawson by Henry Lawson, 1957;
Favourite Australian Poems edited by Ian Mudie, 1963;
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;
Poems of Henry Lawson edited by Walter Stone, 1973;
Australia Fair: Poems and Paintings edited by Douglas Stewart, 1974;
The World of Henry Lawson edited by Walter Stone, 1974;
The Essential Henry Lawson edited by Brian Kiernan, 1982;
A Treasury of Colonial Poetry, 1982;
A Camp-Fire Yarn: Henry Lawson Complete Works 1885-1900 edited by Leonard Cronin, 1984;
The Illustrated Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Beatrice Davis, 1984;
Henry Lawson: An Illustrated Treasury compiled by Glenys Smith, 1985;
The Bushwackers Australian Song Book edited by Jan Wositzky and Dobe Newton, 1988;
A Collection of Australian Bush Verse, 1989;
A Treasury of Bush Verse by G. A. Wilkes, 1991;
Australian Bush Poems, 1991;
The Penguin Book of Australian Ballads edited by Elizabeth Webby and Philip Butterss,  1993;
The Illustrated Treasury of Australian Verse compiled by Beatrice Davis, 1996; and
Classic Australian Verse edited by Maggie Pinkney, 2001.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library, The Poetry of Henry Lawson website

See also.

If you're dodging after sheep on the heavy black soil plain,
While the low home range behind you is all misty with the rain,
When your swag is rolled up sopping and the sky seems tumbling down,
And it cheers your heart to ponder on the day you'll get to town.
When the water trickles slowly from your felt hat to your nose,
Or when westerlies are blowing or the shallow creeks are "froze,"
And the frost is there to follow on the drizzling winter rains,
With the curses of lumbago and a sheaf of aches and pains.
When you shiver from your bluchers to your cabbage-straw's worn crown,
You're apt to think with envy of the blokes that work in town.

When you're watching restless cattle on the camp and there's a rush,
And the beasts are racing from you all among the tangled bush,
Or when you're had weeks of damper and salt junk -- very salt,
When you've only had weak tea to drink and nothing made with malt;
Though your pipe's a lot of comfort, still it often would appear
That tobacco can create a thirst that's only quenched by beer.
For the nights are long and lonely when the stock are on the job,
And the squatters beat the drovers down and haggle for a bob.
But -- somewhere eyes are bright and blue, and hair is golden brown,
And the ripe red lips are smiling when the drover gets to town!

First published in The Queenslander, 25 September 1897

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

   Dying! in the sheltering shade
   That the myall branches made,
While the horse-bells clanged and tinkled, far away across the plain;
   The white stars above were blinking,
   As old Pat Magee lay thinking
Of the faces and the places he would never see again.

   That long trip -- his life -- is over,
   And the grizzled, gaunt old drover
Gives "delivery;" hands his way-bill to his Owner, up above.
   Whether, now, a heaven or hell come,
   Pat will find old mates to welcome --
Saints a few and sinners many 'mong the ones he used to love.

   Lived his years -- some five-and-fifty --
   Neither over-wise nor thrifty;
Many times he "went a bender" from the sober way and straight;
   Yet men found in days of trouble
   Paddy's friendship was no bubble,
And he never wronged a woman nor went back upon a mate.

   And the Boss of all bosses
   May be lenient to the "losses" --
On the tracks that Paddy's travelled there were bound to be a few.
   Maybe He who pays the wages
   Knows how weary were some "stages,"
And there'll be a big "percentage," p'raphs, allowed on coming through.

   So we dug upon the 'Bidgee,
   Fenced it round with stakes of gidgee,
Paddy's grave! for burial-service Jack just whispered, "Rest his soul!"
   Then next morning, heavy-hearted,
   Got the nags up and departed,
Did what Pat himself had ne'er done -- left a comrade on a hole.

First published in The Bulletin, 9 September 1893, and again in the same magazine on 5 April 1902;
and later in
Bushman and Buccaneer: Harry Morant: His 'Ventures and Verses edited by Frank Renar, 1902; and
The Poetry of 'Breaker' Morant: from the Bulletin 1891-1903 with original illustrations by Harry Morant, 1980.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Air - "Little Sally Waters."

The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o'er;
   Our horses we will mount and ride away,
To watch the squatters' cattle through the darkness of the night,
   And we'll keep them on the camp till break of day.

Chorus -
         For we're going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
            And we'll soon be into sunny New South Wales;
         We shall bid farewell to Queensland, with its swampy coolibah ---
            Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa.

When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of the night,
   And the cattle camping quiet, well, I'm sure
That I wish for 2 o'clock when I call the other watch ---
   This is droving from the sandy Maranoa.

Our beds made on the ground, we are sleeping all so sound
   When we're wakened by the distant thunder's roar,
And the lightning's vivid flash followed by an awful crash ---
   It's rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.

We are up at break of day, and we're all soon on the way,
   For we always have to go ten miles or more;
It don't do to loaf about, or the squatter will oome out ---
   He's strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.

We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we'll cross the Barwon, too;
   Then we'll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
We'll shout "Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy coolibah,
   And the cattle that come off the Maranoa."

First published in The Queenslander, 11 August 1894;
and later in
Old Bush Songs: Composed and Sung in the Bushranging, Digging and Overlanding Days edited by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson, 1905;
The North Queensland Register, 26 November 1923, and 25 May 1940;
The Overlander Songbook edited by Ronald George Edwards, 1971;
Old Bush Songs and Rhymes of Colonial Times edited by Douglas Stewart, 1976;
Complete Book of Australian Folklore edited by Bill Scott, 1976;
The Bushwackers Australian Song Book edited by Jan Wositzky and Dobe Newton, 1988;
The Penguin Book of Australian Ballads edited by Elizabeth Webby and Philip Butterrs, 1993; and
Our Country: Classic Australian Poetry: From the Colonial Ballads to Paterson & Lawson edited by Michael Cook, 2004.

Author: A. W. Davis was born about 1870 and worked as a drover in Queensland.  Beyond this nothing is known about this author.

Author reference sites: Austlit

There's a damper in the ashes, tea and sugar in the bags,
There's whips of feed and shelter on the sand-ridge for the nags,
There's gidya wood about us and water close at hand,
And just one bottle left yet of the good Glenlivet brand.

There are chops upon the embers, which same are close-up done,
From as fine a four-tooth wether as there is on Crossbred's run;
'Twas a proverb on the Darling, the truth of which I hold:
"That mutton's aye the sweetest which was never bought nor sold."

Out of fifty thousand wethers surely Crossbred shouldn't miss
A sheep or so to travellers -- faith, 'tis dainty mutton, this --
Let's drink a nip to Crossbred; ah, you drain it with a grin,
Then shove along the billy, mate, and, squatted, let's wade in.

The night's a trifle chilly, and the stars are very bright,
A heavy dew is falling, but the fly is rigged aright;
You may rest your bones till morning, then if you chance to wake,
Give me a call about the time that daylight starts to break.

We may not camp to-morrow, for we've many a mile to go,
Ere we turn our horses' heads round to make tracks for down below.
There's many a water-course to cross, and many a black-soil plain,
And many a mile of mulga ridge ere we get back again.

That time five moons shall wax and wane we'll finish up the work,
Have the bullocks o'er the border and truck 'em down from Bourke,
And when they're sold at Homebush, and the agents settle up,
Sing hey! a spell in Sydney town and Melbourne for the "Cup".

First published in The Bulletin, 5 August 1893, and again in the same magazine on 27 January 1932;
and later in
The Poetry of 'Breaker' Morant: from "The Bulletin" 1891-1903 with original illustrations by Breaker Morant, 1980; and
An Australian Treasury of Popular Verse edited by Jim Haynes, 2002.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

'Tis little I care for earth's kings,
   Its emperors, sultans and czars,
As I lie in the darkness and dream
   All alone with my sheep and the stars.

For as dust of the moment are they,
   Now agleam and now still on earth's breast;
But the stars, spreading wide in the night,
   Travel on, ever on to the west.

My sheep, snugly camped in the dark,
   Misty-white with the pale grasses blend;
But where is the camp of the stars?
   And whither, O Night, do they wend?

Through leagues of dry distance we came,
   Where dust-wreaths, wind-woven, upcurled,
Since Dawn dropped the rails of the east
   And let the Day into our world.

Slow-moving we travelled the plains,
   Trudging on through the sun and the wind,
Till Day galloped out of the west,
   And Night set the sliprails behind.

And now, by my camp-fire alone,
   A tryst with pale Wonder I keep --
That mystical Lady of Dreams,
   Whose hour is the sleep-of-the-sheep.

Foot-tired in the grasses they lie,
   Mist-pale in the darkness, and dumb;
Yet who was it mustered the stars,
   And whence and what leagues have they come?

Who keeps them from straying apart?
   Who urges them straight on their route?
No answer -- none tell me; and lo!
   The Night, though it listen, is mute!

Watch 'neath the stars of the Cross,
   Orion, and Venus and Mars;
I am but a drover of sheep --
   But who is the Drover of Stars?

First published in The Bulletin, 1 August 1918;
and later in
Poems by Roderic Quinn, 1920;
Selections from Australian Poets edited by Bertram Stevens, 1925; and
Australian Bush Songs and Ballads edited by Will Lawson, 1944.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

An hour before the sun goes down
   Behind the ragged boughs,
I go across the little run
   And bring the dusty cows;
And once I used to sit and rest
   Beneath the fading dome,
For there was one that I loved best
   Who'd bring the cattle home.

Our yard is fixed with double bails,
   Round one the grass is green,
The bush is growing through the rails,
   The spike is rusted in;
And 'twas from there his freckled face
   Would turn and smile at me --
He'd milk a dozen in the race
   While I was milking three.

I milk eleven cows myself
   Where once I milked but four;
I set the dishes on the shelf
   And close the dairy door;
And when the glaring sunlight fails
   And the fire shines through the cracks,
I climb the broken stockyard rails
   And watch the bridle-tracks.

He kissed me twice and once again
   And rode across the hill,
The pint-pots and the hobble-chain
   I hear them jingling still;
He'll come at night or not at all --
   He left in dust and heat,
And when the soft, cool shadows fall
   Is the best time to meet.

And he is coming back again,
   He wrote to let me know,
The floods were in the Darling then --
   It seems so long ago;
He'd come through miles of slush and mud,
   And it was weary work,
The creeks were bankers, and the flood
   Was forty miles round Bourke.

He said the floods had formed a block,
   The plains could not be crossed,
And there was foot-rot in the flock
   And hundreds had been lost;
The sheep were falling thick and fast
   A hundred miles from town,
And when he reached the line at last
   He trucked the remnant down.

And so he'll have to stand the cost;
   His luck was always bad,
Instead of making more, he lost
   The money that he had;
And how he'll manage, heaven knows
   (My eyes are getting dim),
He says -- he says -- he don't -- suppose
   I'll want -- to -- marry -- him.

As if I wouldn't take his hand
   Without a golden glove --
Oh! Jack, you men won't understand
   How much a girl can love.
I long to see his face once more --
   Jack's dog! thank God, it's Jack! --
(I never thought I'd faint before)
   He's coming -- up -- the track.

First published in The Boomerang, 20 June 1891;
and later in
The Bulletin, 22 February 1896;
In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses by Henry Lawson, 1900;
The Water Lily by Henry Lawson, 1977;
A Camp-Fire Yarn: Henry Lawson Complete Works 1885-1900 edited by Leonard Cronin, 1984;
A Collection of Australian Bush Verse, 1989;
The Language of Love: An Anthology of Australian Love Letters, Poetry and Prose edited by Pamela Allardice, 1991; and
Classic Australian Verse edited by Maggie Pinkney, 2001.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library, The Poetry of Henry Lawson website

See also.

Yes; I'm Harry Black - "Mad Harry" - and I often hear 'em say :
"Oh he's off poor chap; don't heed him - he has seen a better day.
He was king of all the drovers on a dry and dusty track;
He tried it once too often; it's Mad Harry - Harry Black."

I had got a mob of cattle out beyond the back Paroo,
When stock routes were the paddocks and fences far and few,
And the track was dry as wisdom, and the days were scorching hot,
The beasts were dropping off like flies - I thought we'd lose the lot.

And my mates were turning cranky - day and night without a drink -
But I kept 'em to the music, and I never slept a wink.
I had to keep 'em goin', or the beggars, beast and man,
Would have perished like a bettle in an empty billy-can.

I woke and found, one mornin', there was not a hoof alive,
But I rode around the bodies and started on to drive.
They were bloomin' hard to manage, but I kept 'em all the same,
For whoever knows Mad Harry will admit that he is game.

And I took 'em on my lonely, kept 'em movin' on the track,
Till the fellows who had left me one by one came sneakin' back.
And I never swore or cursed 'em - simply let 'em take a hand,
Till the curious way they watched me brought me round to understand.

I was drivin' ghosts o' cattle - not a live hoof in the lot! -
And they'd never camp a moment, though the day was blazin' hot.
And at night they never rested, always movin', movin' round,
With a restless sort o' movin' and a moanin' sort of sound.

Till at last I swore at Murphy, cursed Joe Cowly to his teeth,
And I saw their lips a-grinnin' and a skeleton beneath!
I cursed 'em both as useless, and then all at once I saw
They had travelled with the cattle, and were livin' men no more.

Ghost o' men and ghosts o' cattle, I could see 'em through the day
In a strange and curious fashion and a hazy sort o' way.
And at night they gathered round me till my flesh was all a-creep,
And at last - I couldn't help it - while they watched I fell asleep.

Then they went and left me sleepin' - went and left me where I lay,
And I swore an oath I'd find 'em if I looked till Judgment Day!
Yes, I'm Harry Black - Mad Harry - and I never can forget
Those pikers from the back Paroo - I'm lookin' for 'em yet!

First published in The Bulletin, 4 May 1905;
and later in
A Collection of Australian Bush Verse, 1989.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Conde had come with us all the way --
   Eight hundred miles -- but the fortnight's rest
Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!
   And Lurline was looking her very best.

Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed
   'Mid the silvery saltbush well content;
Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's shade
   The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.

In the bright spring morning we left them all --
   Camp, and cattle, and white, and black --
And rode for the Range's westward fall,
   Where the dingo's trail was the only track.

Slow through the clay-pans, wet to the knee,
   With the cane-grass rustling overhead;
Swift o'er the plains with never a tree;
   Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed.

Bridle on arm for a mile or more
   We toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's verge
And saw -- as one sees a far-off shore --
   The blue hills bounding the forest surge.

An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred,
   Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff's base;
And its sound like the noise of waves was heard
   'Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.

     .    .    .    .    .

We recked not of wealth in stream or soil
   As we heard on the heights the breezes sing;
We felt no longer our travel-toil;
   We feared no more what the years might bring.

First published in The Bookfellow, 27 April 1899;
and later in
An Anthology of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1907;
The Golden Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1909;
A Treasury of Colonial Poetry, 1982;
An Australian Treasury of Popular Verse edited by Jim Haynes, 2002; and
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Old Qld Poetry

See also.

Come on, boys, get your bridles; there's the big mob in the yard!
Who's copped my fancy saddle-cloth? No colts! l'll ride the mare;
It's no use fighting down the road on something buckling hard,
And when I'm bound for town I like to know that I'll get there.

Put up that rail behind you; wait a bit till I catch mine.
Woh! Back! you rushing devils! Now, then, block her on the fence.
Woh, there! my snorting favorite; look out for Number Nine.
By ghost! he nearly had you; and his kicking's no pretence.

Now, Jack, I'll block the chestnut chap; and ain't he rolling fat!
I don't mind betting you a quid he gives a prop or two.
Now, then, you dancing brumby's foal, what game is this you're at?
Look out for Teddy's pony there! Woh! beauties; let me through.

Stick up those rails behind you, Joe; the cook will want his horse;
I'd take the buckjump saddle, Jack, unless you want a fall.
You`ll ride him in the hunter? Oh, well! have your way, of course;
But don't forget a gravel-rash looks foolish at a ball.

You should have put the saddle on the bounder in the crush;
A snorting, wheeling brute like that is bound to break away.
Come on, young Teddy, look alive, and sling me up that brush,
We want to get to Wilga Town and not stop here all day.

That's mine -- that cloth -- excuse me! No, I haven't got a strap! --
I haven't time to comb your tail, old girl, that mud must stay! --
Heigh! look at Johnny's chestnut! Stick to him, Jack, old chap!
Good riding without kneepads! But, come on, let's get away !

Cut down, Joe, swing that gate for him! Have you got matches, Ted?
All right, I'm ready! Let 'em rip! Now, Bess, don't play the clown!
A start at last, and goodness knows what time we'll get to bed!
What price the whisky and the girls! All clear for Wilga Town!

Don't fret that blushing chestnut, Joe; come round and ride this side;
And, Jack, by Jove, you watch him, or he'll catch you napping yet! --
Oh, here's that flaming slut of mine -- I thought I left her tied!
Go home, you silly beggar! Go home, you rubbish, Jet!

Now, Jack, game for a canter! Sit hack, and ram the spurs:
I think the buck's all out of him; the colt's as right as rain!
I wish this jolly mare of mine would drop that prance of hers;
l'll race the next best cuddy to that liguum on the plain!

Well, just half a length you did me, but you sneaked a bit of start,
And if the little mare was fit she'd lose your long-legged brown!
Look at that clumsy chestnut; Jack will land home in a cart!
Ho! lights among the timber! Let 'em rip for Wilga Town !

First published in The Bulletin, 30 March 1905

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 9 March 1889,
then in the same newspaper on 21 September 1889;
and later in
In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses by Henry Lawson, 1900;
The Coo-ee Reciter: Humourous, Pathetic, Dramatic, Dialect, and Readings compiled by William T. Pyke, 1904; 
The Children's Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1913;
Winnowed Verse by Henry Lawson, 1924;
Selection from Australian Poets edited by Bertram Stevens, 1925;
The Children's Lawson by Henry Lawson, 1949;
Songs from Lawson by Henry Lawson, 1957;
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;
The World of Henry Lawson edited by Walter Stone, 1974;
A Treasury of Colonial Poetry, 1982;
and
An Australian Treasury of Popular Verse edited by Kathrine Bell, 2002,
amongst many others.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library, The Poetry of Henry Lawson website

See also.