Brumbys Run

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?"