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.