CLANCY OF THE OVERFLOW

by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Patterson (1864 - 1941)

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better 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 thumb-nail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, 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 wond'rous 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 townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.


And I 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 cash-book and the journal,
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow’.

OUT WEST
By Colleen A. Blakey

Out along the Barcoo
Where the river runs a mile,
You'll see a country town
And you'll really have to smile.

There are a few things out of place
Down in the main street,
Yet the locals just ignore
The different things they meet.

You'll see some kangaroos
Hopping along the way -
Bouncing quite merrily
Every other day.

Sometimes there are the emus
Who calmly stride along -
Pecking at this and that
Humming a simple song.

What about the Brolga -
And the Cow that jumps the grid,
And don't forget Echidna,
I think they call him Syd!

At Clancy's of the Overflow
Where the beer is icy cold.
The word is spread around
And tall stories are told.

The land is flat for miles around,
The grass is brown and dusty.
The town is called Isisford
Where things don't ever get musty.

Far from the roar of the ocean;
Where the hills are green and lush,
And the city folk are cursing
The peek-hour traffic rush.

Far from the tropic wilderness
Where mould grows on everything
Is Isisford,
A way out west