It lies beyond the Western
Towards the sinking sun,
And not a survey mark
The bounds of "Brumby's Run".
On odds and ends of mountain land,
On tracks of range and
Where no one else can make a stand,
Old Brumby rears his stock.
A wild, unhandled lot they
Of every shape and breed.
They venture out 'neath moon and
Along the flats to feed;
But when the dawn makes pink the
And steals along the plain,
The Brumby horses turn and
Towards the hills again.
The traveller by the
May hear their hoof-beats pass,
And catch a glimpse of brown and
Dim shadows on the grass.
The eager stockhorse pricks his
And lifts his head on
In wild excitement when he
The Brumby mob go by.
Old Brumby asks no price or feeO'er all his wide domains:
The man who yards his stock is
To keep them for his pains.
So, off to scour the
With eager eyes aglow,
To strongholds where the wild mobs
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
We long with bitter
To ride once more on Brumby's
And yard his mob again.
The Aboriginal term for wild horse is 'Brumby' At a trial in Sydney Supreme Court in 1895, a Court Judge hearing of 'Brumby' asked. "Who is Brumby and where is his run?"
