There were storm clouds in the mountains; a thing all up there fear,
so we picked up the pace a bit, can’t wait for this to clear.
Amid the rain we felt the sting as hailstones lashed our skin
we knew that somewhere up ahead was a pile of bark and tin
held up by spindly bush poles, twisted wire holds them fast;
a common way of building in times now long since past.
The sort of hut the drovers built or the miners long forgot
and though we knew ’twas flimsy, it was the safest spot.
For the men who built it lived here, survival ruled their day;
if they didn’t keep the weather out it’d suck their life away.
These days we all head to them; hiker and the drovers too
and most folk know their story and how their legend grew.
And one thing I can tell you, as you wander cross the plain
treat them like your own home cos from them we all gain.
When the cold comes in icy blasts; that’ll soon turn hail to snow
and the treachery of that blanket all who come here know.
Head to the safety made by Bushmen who once walked here too
and hunker by the fire and keep your Billy near to you.