Brigalow Mick

A dandy old horseman is Brigalow Mick —
 * Which his name, sir, is Michael O’Dowd—

Whatever he’s riding, when limber is thick,
 * He is always in front of the crowd.

A few tangled locks that are fast turning white
 * Crown a physog. the colour of brick,

But as keen as a kestrel’s—as bold and as bright —
 * Is the blue eye of Brigalow Mick.

He is Martin’s head-stockman, on Black-Cattle Creek —
 * All the boys there are rare ones to ride —

But Mick is the "daddy;" and far you may seek
 * Ere you find such an artist in hide.

He’ll turn out a halter, or stockwhip can make,
 * As you’ve seldom cast eyes on before;

And never the "nugget" was calved that could break
 * Michael’s whips, which he plaits by the score.

All the lads on the station are handy enough,
 * Nor are frightened of grafting too hard,

But Mick, if the cattle are rowdy and rough,
 * Is the pick of ’em all in a yard.

A bad colt to tackle—a mad one to steer
 * Through thick timber—you’ll hear Martin boast—

Mick yet is unrivalled, there isn’t his peer
 * Right from Camooweal in to the coast.

Ay! long may it be ere the scrubs are bereft
 * Of the clearskins that give us the sport,

And long may the station have stock-riders left,
 * Of the build of old Brigalow's sort.