The Creek From The High Country Babbles Along

From the wooded foothills of the pied currawong
The creek from the high country babbles along
Through the old brown dry paddocks by night and by day
For to join the big river on it's sea going way.

The old local bloke with hair white as snow
Says in his eighty years he's not seen it so low
Many of the smaller creeks that feed it at present bone dry
It hasn't rained here since early July.

By the homes of the grey roo and the pale eyed crow
Above the brown gravel it trickles on slow
Through over-gazed paddocks where rank thistles grow
On to the big river it ever does flow.

This countryside with lots of moisture could do
A week of good rainfall having said that two
Many of the local farmers have moved to elsewhere
For to start a new life in the big towns out there.

And though there isn't much water left in any drain
The creek from the foothills it's babble retain
And across the dry paddocks where rank thistles grow
The thirsty winds down through the south country blow.