Trapping brumbies in the moonlight! those were nights of reckless fun, 'Way back on Campbell's country - on the Goory-bibil run, When saddled up and ready qur impatient nags would stand While we squatted in the gunyah with their bridle-reins in hand.
And presently the hoof-beats of the brumbies' trot would sound As they rattled o'er the ridges of the mulga-timbered ground; They'd be thirsty, for that stretching trot had brought them from afar, And the only water for them was the hole at Rocky Bar.
We would hear the stallions whinny, and then the water splash - That latter was our signal-through the deadwood with a crash We were at them-you on joker, I on Harlequin, and Mick Would be with us, just as eager as his jumper, Elsternwick.
Our stockwhips in the stilly night like rifle-shots would ring When we beat them on the Bilbee Flat and slewed 'em to the wing; And when we had 'em yarded, oh, the clatter and the din! How they kicked and squealed and snorted when they found themselves barr'd in!
The nights the brumbies tried to break straight back the way they came Proved Harlequin as nimble as we knew him to he game; In those rushing, frantic scrambles 'twas his cleverness I thank That I didn't get a smasher down that rotten basalt bank.
One old "Merino" came out, and some boundary rider's moke He was riding - it was his fault that the chestnut stallion broke - He sung out: "Never mind him; let the beggar go away!" But you didn't stop to listen, jack, to what he had to say.
And ere you brought the big horse back you had a roughish ride, The Lord knows how you,rnanaged, mate, that night to save your hide! Though bar a stake of sandalwood you weren't a great deal hurt, Though the gidya ripped your moleskins, and the mulga rent your shirt.
That big timber took some dodging, but our hacks were tried and true, And while their heads were left alone would mostly get us through; But never a horse, save Harlequin', at night, 'twas my belief Could race among those Bilbee holes and yet not come to grief.
And then we'd jog away to camp two miles below the Bar, Where we'd find a pipe of Nailrod and a nobbler in the jar. Ah! though our lines of life since then have lain in diverse ways, We don't forget those gallops of the brumby-running days.
First published in The Bulletin, 28 May 1892.