Oh, I've ridden 'em rough an' I've ridden 'em kind,
Brumbies and prads well-bred.
Of every colour and every kind
(The old stock-rider said).
I've broken the wild Blanchwater colts
An' Walers from down Noo South,
An' every sort that bucks or bolts,
With every sort of mouth.

An' I thought I knew the musterin' game
Right thro' from A to Z.
An' every sort of nag you'd name
(The old stock-rider said).
I've wheeled 'em up in the Queensland scrub,
An' tailed 'em back o' Bourke,
To skite in many an old bush pub
I was master of all bush work.

But musterin' cattle be aeroplanes?
What profit does it bring?
An' I don't see how a bushman gains,
For it ain't a natural thing.
Soaring' and roarin' an' rampin' round
In a rackety tin machine,
When a natural horse on natural ground
Beats all yer keraseen.

I suppose it's progress as they say,
But the thing's against all laws.
So I'm saddlin' up an' I'm off away
Where they ain't got them gee-gaws.
For I got no time for aeroplanes;
But a prad with a good, kind eye,
An' the press o' the knee and the feel of the reins
Is my game till I die.