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 pack-horse is trotting by his knee. 

Up Queensland way with cattle he travelled regions 
vast; 
And many months have vanished since home-folk 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 homestead station lies. 
Thitherward the drover jogs through the lazy noon, 
While hobble-chains and camp-ware keep jingling to a 
tune. 

[Instrumental]

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 stealing o'er him goes rolling down the 
plain; 
And sing on thirsty pastures in past the flashing rain. 
And every creek and gully sends forth its trival flood, 
The river runs with anger, all stained with yellow mud. 

And to his hardy horses, and strokes their shaggy 
manes; 
"We've breasted bigger rivers when floods were at their 
height, 
Nor shall this gutter stop us from getting home to-
night!" 

[Instrumental]

The thunder growls a warning, the blue fork lightnings 
streaks, 
As the drover turns his horses to swim the fatal creek. 
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, 
And a cattle dog and pack-horse 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, 
And then pluges through the current to where his master 
sank. 
And round and round in circles he fights with failing 
strength, 
Till, ripped by wilder waters, he fails and sinks at 
length. 

O'er the flooded lowlands and slopes of sodden loam 
The pack-horse struggles bravely, to take dumb tidings 
home. 
And mud-stained, wet, and weary, he goes by rock and 
tree,
With flagon, chains and tinware are sounding eerily.