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Poem	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.
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