The rivers are dry across the land
And the farmers' fields have turned to sand
'Cause the rain hasn't come for two years, going on three
The topsoil's gone with the hot north wind
The crops won't grow and rust's set in,
And the cruel south wind of winter brought no relief
And the old men in the public bar talk of floods and droughts before
And as the night goes on and the conversations die,
But the battlers don't give up,
It's written on theirs hands,
And in their eyes,
And the spirit of the land survives
And on Saturday night in the Royal Hotel,
Hank the Dutchman plays guitar,
He signs country and western favourites and requests,
It used to be his second job,
A bit of a laugh for a couple of bob,
Now it's all he's got 'cause his crops all died of thirst
So he spent his savings on cattle and sheep,
He got some credit, got into deep,
But stock won't graze on pastures turned to salt
And then he tried to get work as a travelling man
Selling Rawleighs products from the back of his van
But the c***ies all shop in town where things are cheap
The school's all run down,
The roof's rusted and the paint's peeling,
The school yards just a dust ball, not a spot of green
But kids still kick their footballs
Sending dust clouds to the sun,
And its good to know the drought can't spoil the fun
And in the cricketer's lounge late at night,
Where c***ies talk and the shearers fight,
And their wives drink shandies 'cause they'll be driving home
The conversation centres around the price of wheat
The lack of grain and the lack of sleep
'Cause credit's stretched and it won't stretch any more
Rural Australians constantly endure floods, droughts, bushfires and falling commodity prices yet they still manage to live rich and rewarding lives.
Hank was a post-war immigrant from Holland .He worked the land, played guitar at local dances for some extra cash and, in many ways, embodied the spirit of the land. -HM
And the farmers' fields have turned to sand
'Cause the rain hasn't come for two years, going on three
The topsoil's gone with the hot north wind
The crops won't grow and rust's set in,
And the cruel south wind of winter brought no relief
And the old men in the public bar talk of floods and droughts before
And as the night goes on and the conversations die,
But the battlers don't give up,
It's written on theirs hands,
And in their eyes,
And the spirit of the land survives
And on Saturday night in the Royal Hotel,
Hank the Dutchman plays guitar,
He signs country and western favourites and requests,
It used to be his second job,
A bit of a laugh for a couple of bob,
Now it's all he's got 'cause his crops all died of thirst
So he spent his savings on cattle and sheep,
He got some credit, got into deep,
But stock won't graze on pastures turned to salt
And then he tried to get work as a travelling man
Selling Rawleighs products from the back of his van
But the c***ies all shop in town where things are cheap
The school's all run down,
The roof's rusted and the paint's peeling,
The school yards just a dust ball, not a spot of green
But kids still kick their footballs
Sending dust clouds to the sun,
And its good to know the drought can't spoil the fun
And in the cricketer's lounge late at night,
Where c***ies talk and the shearers fight,
And their wives drink shandies 'cause they'll be driving home
The conversation centres around the price of wheat
The lack of grain and the lack of sleep
'Cause credit's stretched and it won't stretch any more
Rural Australians constantly endure floods, droughts, bushfires and falling commodity prices yet they still manage to live rich and rewarding lives.
Hank was a post-war immigrant from Holland .He worked the land, played guitar at local dances for some extra cash and, in many ways, embodied the spirit of the land. -HM