Ride, by John Sinclair McIntyre

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Ride, boys, ride, where the wild bush horses hide,
And their stallion screams with terror as he smells the scent of man.
So he leads his charges on, and like a flash they’ve gone
Up the timber studded ridges to a farther safer land.

But the horsemen are not slow to spur their mounts and go
At a gallop up those ridges where the brumby mob has fled.
And the hillside races by as their horses swift hooves fly
Over slippery granite bedrock in their race to get ahead.

So ride, boys, ride, as you reach the other side,
And send your horses sliding to the valley floor below,
For though the brumbies gallop fast, we will hold them to the last,
And send them racing homeward to the stockyard ere we slow.

But the stallion’s mob is tiring as their gallant hooves are firing
Clouds of dust and pebbles down upon us as we climb.
As they top the crest we reckon they are surely past their best
And their capture now is just a case of patience and of time.

So it’s ride, boys, ride, till you’re down the other side,
And the horses have been headed and we’ve turned their heads for home.
Where the stockyard gate is wide, and where the brumbies now will bide
With their flaring nostrils snorting and their shoulders white with foam.