Saltbush Bill, J. P.

Brumby's Run

      Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse.  At a recent trial
      a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked:
      “Who is Brumby, and where is his 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.