Brumby is a name given to the progeny of station hacks and other horses that have escaped into the bush and forests of Australia, where they propergate and breed. There are thousands of brumbys in Australia today.
THE BRUMBY KING
In a far off hidden valley
Where two icy rivers meet,
Where the mountains bounce the echo’s
Of a hundred brumby’s feet.
Where the bellbird gives a warning
To all intruders there,
It was this place I heard about
That I’d like with you to share.
It was told to me by Barcoo Bill,
A shearer we all knew,
He looked me squarely in the eye
And swore every word was true.
He’d been shearing out round Jindabyne
In the spring of thirty eight,
And when the final shed cut out
He said goodbye to all his mates.
To see his girl who waited home ,
He didn’t need an extra push,
So to save some time from Jindabyne
He took a short cut through the bush.
He made his way across that rugged range
Through hidden valleys seldom seen,
He steered his horse on a wandering course
Where few white men had ever been.
He camped at night ‘neath the bright starlight
In mountain meadows lush with grass,
And throughout the day he held his way
Towards a distant mountain pass.
As he headed West he thought it best
To escape the midday sun,
So he moved up on the mountain side
Where he crossed a brumby’s run.
Fresh were the tracks that he saw there
Of wild horses roaming free,
So he laid up in a patch of scrub
Where he hoped the brumby mob to see.
He waited there for an hour or two
Then his old horse pricked up his ears,
He looked up on the mountain side
Just as the wild brumby mob appears.
There were fifty mares or more
With foals running at their side,
There were blacks and bays and dapple greys
And many more beside.
“ I wonder where the stallion is,”
Bill voiced his thoughts anew,
And even as he spoke aloud
The black stallion came in view.
There stood the mighty brumby king
With shiny coat as black as coal,
Whose only purpose and ambition was,
To put every brumby mare in foal.
Then in the distance a piercing scream,
Another stallion’s mating call,
The mares closed up their straggling ranks
In case danger should befall.
Then across the rough and broken ground
A chestnut stallion could be seen,
As he galloped up to join the mob,
The black stallion cut between.
The chestnut colt was big and strong
And seemed unaware of dangers fraught,
While the old black horse was a cagey foe,
For many battles he had fought.
They met up on the mountain side,
A truly stirring sight,
They fought with teeth and flailing feet
As only stallions fight.
Bill had never seen a fight between
Two more vicious savage brutes,
He moved in to take a closer look,
While all the mares and foals stood mute.
The big chestnut horse was savage now
And quicker than the black,
Through sheer force without remorse,
He forced the old horse back.
The old black horse quickly spun away
And galloped further up the hill,
Where he turned to face the chestnut’s charge
And the battle raged once more until
He turned again and galloped up
Till he was high up on the ledge,
And in retreat lured the chestnut on
Till he was close up to the edge.
Then he dived beneath those flailing feet
With a scream of sheer rage,
And heaved the chestnut into space
Like two actors on the stage.
As the chestnut stallion flashed from view,
Bill stood mute with bated breath,
For it seemed a shame, that one so game,
Should finish there in death.
Bill climbed up on that rocky ledge
And looking down could only stare,
For on those jagged rocks below
Three other colts lay there.