While The Billy BoilsSearchIt lies beyond the Western PinesTowards the sinking sun,And not a survey mark definesThe bounds of “Brumby's Run”.
On odds and ends of mountain land,On tracks of range and rockWhere no one else can make a stand,Old Brumby rears his stock.
A wild, unhandled lot they areOf every shape and breed.They venture out 'neath moon and starAlong the flats to feed;
But when the dawn makes pink the skyAnd steals along the plain,The Brumby horses turn and flyTowards the hills again.
The traveller by the mountain-trackMay hear their hoof-beats pass,And catch a glimpse of brown and blackDim shadows on the grass.The eager stockhorse pricks his earsAnd lifts his head on highIn wild excitement when he hearsThe Brumby mob go by.
Old Brumby asks no price or feeO'er all his wide domains:The man who yards his stock is freeTo keep them for his pains.
So, off to scour the mountain-sideWith eager eyes aglow,To strongholds where the wild mobs hideThe 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 doneWe long with bitter painTo ride once more on Brumby's RunAnd yard his mob again.