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. 

A.B. (Banjo) Paterson