We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,

`We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
They mostly bring a Bogan shower -- three rain-drops and some dust;
But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think
That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!"

`There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust -- we'd heard of them before,
And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war":
But -- if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst --
That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.

`It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine
To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.

`Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst!
We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst.
The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub,
They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.

`We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried;
Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side
Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said,
Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead!

`We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room,
And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom.