THE DROVER'S BOY by Ted Egan

They couldn't understand why the drover cried
As they buried the drover's boy.
The Drover had always seemed so hard, to the men in his employ
A bolting horse, the stirrup lost,
And the drover's boy was dead
The shovelled dirt, a mumbled word,
And it's back to the road ahead;
And forget about the drover's boy;
Forget about the drover's boy.

And they couldn't understand why the drover cut
The lock of the dead boy' s hair
And put it in the band of his battered old hat
As they watched him standing there
And he told them to take the cattle on
I'll sit with the boy a while
A silent thought, a pipe to smoke
And it's ride another mile
And forget about the drover's boy
Forget about the drover's boy.

And they couldn't make out why the drover and the boy
Always camped so far away
For the tall white man and the slim black boy
Never had much to say
And the boy would be gone at the break of dawn
Tail the horses, carry on
While the drover roused the sleeping men
Daylight – hit the road again
And follow the drover's boy, and follow the drover's boy.

In the Camooweal Pub they talked about
The death of the drover's boy
They drank their rum with the stranger who'd come
From the Kimberley run, Fitzroy
And he told of the massacre in the west
Barest details – guess the rest
Shoot the bucks, grab a gin
Cut her hair, break her in
And call he a boy – the drover's boy, and call he a boy – the drover's boy.

So when they build that stockman's hall of fame
And they talk about the droving game
Remember the girl who was bedmate and guide
Rode with the drover side by side
Watched the bullocks, flayed the hide,
Faithful wife but never bride,
Bred his sons for the cattle run
But don't weep for the drover's boy, don't mourn for the drover's boy,
But don't get the drover's boy.