Dan The Drover
Posted: Mon Nov 18, 2013 4:48 pm
Dan The Drover
Among the men who work with cattle in Queenslands vast outback
Danny Glover was the best they say with a mob out on the track.
Seated around the fire at night stockmen yarn about his deeds.
How he could pull the cattle through when no one could succeed.
They tell of the time on Murranji when moving a thousand head.
The drought dissolved in drumming rain and the channel flood began to spread.
Dan pushed the cattle onwards towards the higher, safer ground.
With the water lapping at their heels not a single steer was drowned.
On a blanket spread upon the ground beneath a kero lantern’s glow,
he was born out on the Barkley some seventy years ago.
The drover’s camp became his school as he learnt the droving game,
In a trade where any respect is earned Danny Glover gained his fame.
Crushed beneath a falling horse when out on Warradome,
His droving days are gone forever Danny never more will roam.
Now he lies in a hospital bed a mass of broken bones
The city life goes bustling no one cares he’s all alone.
He hates the feel of the feather-like bed and the shine of the flouro light
he yearns to return to the western plain with its star filled sky at night.
To yarn at the fore in the flickering glow with those that he called his friends
To sleep once more in his well worn swag as the chill of night descends.
He dreams at night of a cattle rush with the thunderous shaking ground,
And rode on the flank at breakneck pace to turn the fearful leaders back.
Then he awakes from his troubled sleep in his room so muted and dim
No warm summer breeze or eucalypt trees just the white painted walls around him.
Dan struggles from his bed and hobbles to the drawer
pants, shirt, boots and broad-brimmed hat the clothes that he once wore.
They discovered him next morning stretched out upon his bed,
All dressed to go a-droving but the drover Dan was dead.
Road trains rumble on this land where Danny once was king,
Belching smoke and diesel fumes such huge and ugly things.
But those of us with memories will write our verse and prose,
To preserve old Danny’s golden days brought sadly to a close.
Bill Pacey ( C )
Among the men who work with cattle in Queenslands vast outback
Danny Glover was the best they say with a mob out on the track.
Seated around the fire at night stockmen yarn about his deeds.
How he could pull the cattle through when no one could succeed.
They tell of the time on Murranji when moving a thousand head.
The drought dissolved in drumming rain and the channel flood began to spread.
Dan pushed the cattle onwards towards the higher, safer ground.
With the water lapping at their heels not a single steer was drowned.
On a blanket spread upon the ground beneath a kero lantern’s glow,
he was born out on the Barkley some seventy years ago.
The drover’s camp became his school as he learnt the droving game,
In a trade where any respect is earned Danny Glover gained his fame.
Crushed beneath a falling horse when out on Warradome,
His droving days are gone forever Danny never more will roam.
Now he lies in a hospital bed a mass of broken bones
The city life goes bustling no one cares he’s all alone.
He hates the feel of the feather-like bed and the shine of the flouro light
he yearns to return to the western plain with its star filled sky at night.
To yarn at the fore in the flickering glow with those that he called his friends
To sleep once more in his well worn swag as the chill of night descends.
He dreams at night of a cattle rush with the thunderous shaking ground,
And rode on the flank at breakneck pace to turn the fearful leaders back.
Then he awakes from his troubled sleep in his room so muted and dim
No warm summer breeze or eucalypt trees just the white painted walls around him.
Dan struggles from his bed and hobbles to the drawer
pants, shirt, boots and broad-brimmed hat the clothes that he once wore.
They discovered him next morning stretched out upon his bed,
All dressed to go a-droving but the drover Dan was dead.
Road trains rumble on this land where Danny once was king,
Belching smoke and diesel fumes such huge and ugly things.
But those of us with memories will write our verse and prose,
To preserve old Danny’s golden days brought sadly to a close.
Bill Pacey ( C )
(nice poem)