Slim Dusty - Bullock Dung Narration
[Spoken] There is no exaggeration in this Bullock Dung Narration There are still ole timers left that know the score Though this present generation Of our engine driven nation May not believe the way we lived, the way we lived before. So I'll try to explain it to you. [Sung] Oh the saddle and the bridle and the spurs are hanging idle All the horses turned out loose along time ago Oh there isn't droving now the road trains have the loading And there ain't no horsemen needed at the long Overload. Steer bines are getting rusty and the saddle cloths are musty Saddles hanging cracked and brittle in the shed Yes the droving mobs are lacking, no more sounds of stock whips cracking And the road trains now a roarin' up where once the big mobs lead. The stock routes lonely stages written down in history's pages Relegated to an era of old things past The stockmen an' the drovers are historical left over's Yeah the trucker men has taken over He's taken over the past. Yes the Birdsville track been graded, though it' still not very shaded And the Cooper Creek's still full of drifting sand Or away north on the Barkley where the ringers once rode smartly With the cattle far away out on the grassy tablelands. Camp fire wood is rather scanty they're beyond the rank and shanty And the drovers made their fires with bullock dung Drover's cooks where rather hampered when they tried to cook the damper And their thoughts or words are better left, better left unsung. Now the cattle from the byways are all rushed along the highways By the cafes for the drivers tasty snack His thoughts are not of campfires but are more a line of truck tyres As he rolls across the Marungi, the Marungi and back. Where the rider's spurs once jangled through the lands swept scrubs and tangled Out beyond Newcastle's waters to the west Now the diesel fumes are heavy from the big trucks nightly revving Though I think the set of camp fires some how suits me best. The old drover is now zero and the trucker is the hero, Of this younger generation now it seems, But my thoughts are with the bridle and the stock whips hanging idle, I can only go a drovin' now, a drovin' in my dreams. For the spurs no longer jangle, saddle straps are in a tangle, And the green eye ropes are dry and hard as wood, Yeah, the saddles and the bridles and the stock whips hanging idle Tell the story oh, much better, so much better than I could.