I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him
Just 'on spec', addressed as follows, Clancy, of the overflow
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected
And I think the same was written with a thumbnail dipped in tar
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it
Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving 'down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of the overflow
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving 'down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know