The Drovers Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABCBDBBBEBFBBB GBABHBIB JBDBBBBB| Shrivelled leather rusty buckles and the rot is in our knuckles | A |
| Scorched for months upon the pommel while the brittle rein hung free | B |
| Shrunken eyes that once were lighted with fresh boyhood dull and blighted | C |
| And the sores upon our eyelids are unpleasant sights to see | B |
| And our hair is thin and dying from the ends with too long lying | D |
| In the night dews on the ashes of the Dry Countree | B |
| Yes we ve seen em bleaching whitely where the salt bush sparkles brightly | B |
| But their grins were over friendly so we passed and let them be | B |
| And we ve seen them rather recent and we ve stopped to hide em decent | E |
| When they weren t nice to handle and they weren t too nice to see | B |
| We have heard the dry bones rattle under fifteen hundred cattle | F |
| Seen the rags go up in dust clouds and the brittle joints kicked free | B |
| But there s little time to tarry if you wish to live and marry | B |
| When the cattle shy at something in the Dry Countree | B |
| - | |
| No you needn t fear the blacks on the Never Never tracks | G |
| For the Myall in his freedom s an uncommon sight to see | B |
| Oh we do not stick at trifles and the trackers sneak their rifles | A |
| And go strolling in the gloaming while the sergeant s yarning free | B |
| Round the Myalls creep the trackers there s a sound like firing crackers | H |
| And the blacks are getting scarcer in the Dry Countree | B |
| Goes an unprotected maiden cross the clearing carrion laden | I |
| Oh they ride em down on horseback in the Dry Countree | B |
| - | |
| But you don t know what might happen when a tank is but a trap on | J |
| Roofs of hell and there is nothing but the blaze of hell to see | B |
| And the phantom water s lapping and no limb for saddle strapping | D |
| Better carry your revolver through the Dry Countree | B |
| But I m feeling gay and frisky come with me and have a whisky | B |
| Change of hells is all we live for that s my mate that s got D T | B |
| We have fought through hell s own weather he and I and death together | B |
| Oh the devil grins to greet us from the Dry Countree | B |
Henry Lawson
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