He sat by the door of the grand old Birdsville Pub 
His swag and gear was guarded by a faithful heeler dog 
He wore a shirt that would blind ya and a rumpled ringers hat 
This old man was country, he left no doubt of that 
Well he sang of mobs of cattle moving down the Birdsville track 
And the camels carting wool in the early days outback 
He sang of wild eyed scrubbers runnin' flat out in the night 
Tryin' to ring the mob cause the lightnin's quick to fright 
He sat there hillbilly pickin' on a cracked and battered Gibson 
And the songs that he sang were all his 
Every song told a story and the more that I listened 
The more I realised this is where country is 
Well his songs told how they did it and I felt a sense of shame 
And I wondered if the battler would ever be again 
His pride in his country rang true in every song 
And I wondered if the chips were down if I ever would be as strong 
_______________________________THE END___________________________