It lies beyond the Western Pines <br />Towards the sinking sun, <br />And not a survey mark defines <br />The bounds of "Brumby's Run". <br /> <br />On odds and ends of mountain land, <br />On tracks of range and rock <br />Where no one else can make a stand, <br />Old Brumby rears his stock. <br /> <br />A wild, unhandled lot they are <br />Of every shape and breed. <br />They venture out 'neath moon and star <br />Along the flats to feed; <br /> <br />But when the dawn makes pink the sky <br />And steals along the plain, <br />The Brumby horses turn and fly <br />Towards the hills again. <br /> <br />The traveller by the mountain-track <br />May hear their hoof-beats pass, <br />And catch a glimpse of brown and black <br />Dim shadows on the grass. <br />The eager stockhorse pricks his ears <br />And lifts his head on high <br />In wild excitement when he hears <br />The Brumby mob go by. <br /> <br />Old Brumby asks no price or fee <br />O'er all his wide domains: <br />The man who yards his stock is free <br />To keep them for his pains. <br /> <br />So, off to scour the mountain-side <br />With eager eyes aglow, <br />To strongholds where the wild mobs hide <br />The gully-rakers go. <br /> <br />A rush of horses through the trees, <br />A red shirt making play; <br />A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, <br />They vanish far away! <br /> <br />Ah, me! before our day is done <br />We long with bitter pain <br />To ride once more on Brumby's Run <br />And yard his mob again. <br /> <br />A.B. (Banjo) Paterson<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brumby-s-run/
