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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

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