| I come ridin' down the Barwon with my saddle and my swag
|
| Strapped across the bony framework of a long backed chestnut nag
|
| I was headin' for a station on the stockroute west of Bourke
|
| To tangle with an outlaw horse well known in campfire talk
|
| When I rode down to the stockyard where they said I’d find the boss
|
| Standing just inside I saw the big roan outlaw horse
|
| He was just the kind of horseflesh a ringer dreams about
|
| Game eye and good strong shoulders and front legs well spaced out
|
| I said now boss is that the horse the ringers rave about
|
| I’ve heard of him at Camooweal and even further out
|
| Yes he’s been tried by desert men and riders from the gulf
|
| He said I’d give my station to the man that calls his bluff
|
| And as I strapped the bridle on that proud and shapely head
|
| I pictured me as owner of his big merino spread
|
| I threw my Schneider poley on and tightened up the girth
|
| And as I stepped astride him the big horse left this earth
|
| He left the ground in one tight ball as solid as a stone
|
| And all that I could see around was one big blur of roan
|
| I hit him with my goosenecks around the shoulder points
|
| He twisted like a reptile that had a million joints
|
| He dropped his shoulders way down low and chopped out to the right
|
| He started striking at the bit each time the spurs did bite
|
| I thought I felt him weaken so I voiced a victory yell
|
| What happened then I only know for those who saw it tell
|
| So I rode way from the station with my saddle and my swag
|
| Strapped across the bony framework of the same old chestnut nag
|
| And just as I was leaving he whinnied loud and shrill
|
| And even after all these years I fancy I hear him still
|
| They still tell yarns about him around the campfire blaze
|
| Of the noted riders that he’s thrown so many different ways
|
| And while I’m taking night watch on a cattle camp alone
|
| I try to figure how I lost the battle with the roan |