| The drovin' tracks are over they move in cattle trains
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| Where there’s red dust on the ridges and blacksoil on the plains
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| The drover strokes his iron steed and springs to a bucket seat
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| He throws the monster into gear and she moves on rubbered feet
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| The hobble chains and horse bells hang silent on the wall
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| They’ve been on many stages through downs and timber tall
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| Besides the saddles and the packs that were the drovers pride
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| Road trains roar along the track where the drovers used to ride
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| But it’s road trains roll, road trains roll
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| The stock routes are deserted no droving plant you see
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| The bores and tanks they watered at are just a memory
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| No more you see the mob strung out along the sunburnt plain
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| Where the old time drover battled on though dust and drought and rain
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| He sees again in fancy beside the camp fires glow
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| The battered old bedourie that once was filled with dough
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| With saddle gear and swagwrap rolled out by the fireside
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| To drove again would be this old timers joy and pride
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| But it’s road trains roll, road trains roll
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| Road trains roar along the track where the drover used to ride
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| Churning up the bulldust as they roll the miles aside
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| Like a winding reptile with trailers wide and long
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| Over the road and range land where the drover sang his song
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| There’s saltbush bill and Clancy both drovers long since dead
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| Who’d marvel to see a fleet of trailers load a thousand head
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| Maybe their ghost a watching as progress takes its stride
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| Over the roads and range lands where the drover used to ride
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| But it’s road trains roll, road trains roll
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| Road trains roll, road trains roll. |