Brumby's Run

It lies beyond the Western Pines Beneath 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 Back to the hills again. The traveler by the mountain-track May hear the hoof-beats pass, And catch a glimpse of brown and black Dim shadows on the grass. The eager stock-horse 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.