Clancy Of The Overflow

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 thumbnail dipped in tar);
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote, 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 wondrous glory of the everlasting stars
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish 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 the townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste
And I’d 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 cashbook and the journal —
But I’d doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy of The Overflow