MEMORIES OF A DROVER
I dream again of the saltbush plain
of a faithfull dog named rover,
The camp fire at night ‘neath the bright starlight
Of the days when I was a drover.
The bulloakes stirring in the breeze
The meandering water courses,
The music of the hobble chains
Of the drovers weary horses.
A thousand head of baldy steers
Stretched out for more than a mile,
A hearty meal at the camp at night
From a cook that we had on trial.
The sudden storm where hope is born
That at last the drought be broken,
But once again we wait in vain
For the rain is but a token.
The old camp dog, his hackles rise
When a dingo’s howl is heard,
Then a piercing cry from up on high
Of some unseen nocturnal bird.
There are many times when all is calm
When droving cattle’s a delight,
But something unforseen can often mean
Wild rushes in the night.
Riding watch on a moonlight night
Round a big mob to and fro,
Brings to the drover a sense of peace
That city folk will never know.
Many times I’ve heard it said
By older men than me,,
That once droving’s in your blood
Other paths are hard to see.
Now the lamp of youth grows dim with age
And my working days are nearly over,
One of the things I treasure most
Are the memories of a drover.