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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408807" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Drovers</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shrivelled leather, rusty buckles, and the rot is in our knuckles,<br>Scorched for months upon the pommel while the brittle rein hung free;<br>Shrunken eyes that once were lighted with fresh boyhood, dull and blighted—<br>And the sores upon our eyelids are unpleasant sights to see.<br>And our hair is thin and dying from the ends, with too long lying<br>In the night dews on the ashes of the Dry Countree. <br>Yes, we’ve seen ’em ‘bleaching whitely’ where the salt-bush sparkles brightly,<br>But their grins were over-friendly, so we passed and let them be.<br>And we’ve seen them ‘rather recent,’ and we’ve stopped to hide ’em decent<br>When they weren’t nice to handle and they weren’t too nice to see;<br>We have heard the dry bones rattle under fifteen hundred cattle—<br>Seen the rags go up in dust-clouds and the brittle joints kicked free;<br>But there’s little time to tarry, if you wish to live and marry,<br>When the cattle shy at something in the Dry Countree. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, you needn’t fear the blacks on the Never Never tracks—<br>For the Myall in his freedom’s an uncommon sight to see;<br>Oh! we do not stick at trifles—and the trackers sneak their rifles,<br>And go strolling in the gloaming while the sergeant’s yarning free:<br>Round the Myalls creep the trackers—there’s a sound like firing crackers<br>And—the blacks are getting scarcer in the Dry Countree.<br>(Goes an unprotected maiden-’cross the clearing carrion-laden—<br>Oh they ride ’em down on horseback in the Dry Countree.) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But you don’t know what might happen when a tank is but a trap on<br>Roofs of hell, and there is nothing but the blaze of hell to see;<br>And the phantom water’s lapping—and no limb for saddle-strapping—<br>Better carry your revolver through the Dry Countree.<br>But I’m feeling gay and frisky, come with me and have a whisky!<br>Change of hells is all we live for (that’s my mate that’s got D.T.);<br>We have fought through hell’s own weather, he and I and death together—<br>Oh, the devil grins to greet us from the Dry Countree!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408807" data-title="The Drovers de Henry Lawson" data-description="Shrivelled leather, rusty buckles, and the rot is in our knuckles,
Scorched for months upon the pommel while the brittle rein hung free;
Shrunken eyes that once were lighted with fresh boyhood, dull and blighted—
And the sores upon our eyelids a..."></div>
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