# Brumby's Run



## crackrider (Jan 23, 2007)

Brumby's Run by Banjo Patterson

IT lies beyond the Western Pines
Towards the sinking sun,
And not a survey mark defines
The bounds of â€œBrumby's Runâ€. 
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 â€™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 ****** 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
Oâ€™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 Brumbyâ€™s Run
And yard his mob again.


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