It lies beyond the western pines, Towards
the sinking sun,
And not a survey mark defines, The bounds of "Brumby's Run."
On odds and ends of mountain land, On tracks
of range and rock,
Where no one else can make a stand, Old Brumby rears his stock.
A wild, unhandled lot they are, Of every shape
and breed,
They venture out 'neath moon and star, Along the flats to feed.
But, when the dawn makes pink the sky, And
steals along the plain,
The Brumby horses turn and fly, Towards to the hills again.
The traveller by the mountain track, May hear
their hoof-beats pass,
And catch a glimpse of brown and black, Dim shadows on the grass.
The eager stockhorse pricks his ears, And
lifts his head on high,
In wild excitement when he hears, The Brumby mob go by.
Old Brumby asks no price or fee, O'er all
his wide domains,
The man who yards his stock is free, To keep them for his pains.
So, off to scour the mountain side, With eager
eyes aglow,
To strongholds where the wild mobs hide, The gully-rakers go.
A rush of horses through the trees, A red
shirt making play,
A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, They vanish far away!
Ah, me! before our day is done, We long with
bitter pain,
To ride once more on Brumby's Run, And yard his mob again.
by A.B. "Banjo" Patterson