As I write this little story, I may be feeling blue, for the swag is wet and sodden, and the fly is blown in two.
The rain is coming heavy, and the wind is very chill, and I sometimes feel like howling with the dingles on the hill.
And the joke that comes to memory, it was written long ago, the drover's life has pleasures that the town folk never know.
When you're sitting on a night horse on a dark and stormy night, you see the white horns glisten in the lightning silvery light.
The thunder crashes round you, and you're soaking to the skin, tonguing for some nicotine you've done your tobacco in.
So you sit out there and wonder if they jump, which way they'll go, yeah, the drover's life has pleasures that the town folk never know.
Oh, they say it must be thrilling, how do you know?

Beneath the desert stars, with your only sole companion, just a mob of mad gulags.
And when you eat the babbler's brownie, oh, it's best to close your eyes, for it's hard to tell the difference between the currents and the flies.
That's right now.
When the feed is very scanty and the water holds it dry, the squatter's sitting on your back, it's enough to make you cry.
When you battle down a dusty stage to a boar that's broken down, or a tank shot full of bullet holes by yokels from the town.
Oh, they wonder why you hit the grog and curse their lousy station, why many a man has cut his throat.
In sheer desperation, so you reckon that you'll chuck it in and give something else a go.
Yeah, the drover's life has pleasures that the town folk never know.
Oh, I sometimes rather doubt it, but then I wouldn't know.
They say this life has pleasures that the town folk never know.
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