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.