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 thumb-nail 
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 wond'rous glory of the everlasting 
stars. 

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.