Brumby's Run

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 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.