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He Dsat by the door of the Agrand old Birdsville DPub
His Gswag and gear was Dguarded by a faithful heeler Adog
He wore a Dshirt that would blind ya and a rumpled ringers Ghat
DThis old man was country, he Aleft no doubt of Dthat
Well he Dsang of mobs of cattle moving Adown the Birdsville Dtrack
And the Gcamels carting Dwool in the early days outAback
He sang of Dwild eyed scrubbers runnin' flat out in the Gnight
DTryin' to ring the mob cause the Alightnin's quick to Dfright
He sat there hillbillGy pickin' on a cracked Dand battered Gibson
AAnd the songs that he sang were all Dhis
Every Gsong told a story and the Dmore that I listened
The more I realised this is Awhere country Dis
DWell his songs told how they did it and I Afelt a sense of Dshame
And I Gwondered if the Dbattler would ever be Aagain
His Dpride in his country rang true in every Gsong
And I Dwondered if the chips were down if I Aever would be as Dstrong
REPEAT Chorus
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