Across the stony ridges,
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
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.
The floods are in the ocean,
The streams are 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
Nelle's journey 