The Drover/Brisbane Ladies

Saul Mendelsohn



Farewell and adieu to you Brisbane ladies
Farewell and adieu to you girls of Toowong
For we've sold all our cattle and cannot now linger
But trust we shall see you again before long

Chorus
We sing and we shout like true Queensland natives
As merrily, merrily, onward we push
Until we return to the Old Cattle station
What joy and delight is a life in the bush

The first camp we make we shall call it the Good Luck
Cabbolture and Kilcoy, thne Colinton hut
We pull up at Stone House, Bob Williamson's paddock
And soon the next morning we cross the Black Butt

On, on past Taromeo to Yarraman Creek, boys
It's there we will make a fine camp for the day
Where the water and grass are both plenty and good boys
The life of the drover is merry and gay

The camp is all snug and supper is over
We lounge round the fire enjoying a smoke
While yarning of home or the life of a drover
Till all join in the chorus to "Grandfather's Clock"

Next night through Nanango - the jolly old township
"Good day to you, lads" wiht a hearty shake hands
"Come on, this is my shout! Well here's to your next trip
And we hope you will step in tonight at our dance

Oh, the girls look so pretty - the sight is entrancing
Bewitching and graceful they join in the fun
Of waltz, polka, first set, and all other dancing
To the old concertina of Jack Smith, the Don

Though far I have travelled through Russia and Finns-land
Have met the famed damsels of Poland and Spain
More lovely and fair are the darlings of Queensland
You may search the wide world for their equals in vain

Now drink to our lasses in right hearty fashion
Come sing the loud chorus - sing farewell to all
We'll drink this town dry then farewell to all
And when we return from the Old Cattle Station
We'll always be pleased to give you a call


This version from the Hurd Collection (1894-1900), and written by Saul Mendelsohn, a storekeeper from Nanango. The more-famous version is that collected by AL Lloyd.

The illustration to this post is of

Wool trains leaving Burenda Station, Augathella, 1910.

from Bonzle

Ballad of the Drover

Words: Henry Lawson
Tune: Traditional



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 packhorse
Is trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattle
He's travelled regions vast,
And many months have vanished
Since home-folks 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;
Then 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 Hoods were at their height,
Nor shall this gutter stop us
From getting home tonight!"

The thunder growls a warning,
The blue, forked lightning's 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;
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.


Collected to this tune from Sally Sloane by John Meredith.