| They couldn’t understand why the drover cried | 
| As they buried the drover’s boy | 
| The drover had always seemed so hard | 
| To the men in his employ | 
| A bolting horse, the stirrup lost | 
| And the drover’s boy was dead | 
| A shovel of dirt, a mumbled word | 
| And it’s back to the road ahead | 
| And forget about the drover’s boy | 
| And they couldn’t understand why the drover cut | 
| A lock of the dead boy’s hair | 
| And put it in the band of his battered old hat | 
| As they watched him standing there | 
| And he told them, «Take the cattle on | 
| I’ll sit with the boy a while. | 
| «A silent thought, a pipe to smoke | 
| And it’s ride another mile | 
| And forget about the drover’s boy | 
| Forget about the drover’s boy | 
| And they couldn’t make out why the drover and the boy | 
| Was camped so faraway | 
| For the tall white man and the slim black boy | 
| Never had much to say | 
| And the boy would be gone at the break of dawn | 
| Tail the horses, carry on | 
| While the drover roused the sleeping men | 
| Daylight, hit the road again | 
| And follow the drover’s boy | 
| Follow the drover’s boy | 
| In the Camowheel pub they talked about | 
| The death of the drover’s boy | 
| They drank their rum with the stranger | 
| Who’d come from the Kimberley Run Fitzroy | 
| And he told of the massacre in the west | 
| Barest details, guess the rest | 
| Shoot the bucks, grab a gin, cut her hair | 
| Break her in, call her a boy, the drover’s boy | 
| Call her a boy, the drover’s boy | 
| So when they build that stockman’s hall of fame | 
| And they talk about the droving game | 
| Remember the girl who was bed mate and died | 
| Rode with the drover, side by side | 
| Watched the bullocks, flayed the hide | 
| Faithful wife but never a bride | 
| Bred his sons for the cattle run | 
| Don’t weep for the drover’s boy | 
| Don’t mourn for the drover’s boy — | 
| But don’t forget the drover’s boy |