| His eyes were used to distance and he talked much with his hands
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| I guess he sort of felt hemmed in a stranger to this land
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| And a lifestyle of another time, another time and place
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| Was written there deep in the lines of this old bushman’s face.
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| His attire was still in keeping with the far out channel lands
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| There was still a strength of character in his hard old bushman’s hands
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| And his old hat tilted forward was as much a part of him
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| As the 80 years of livin' that showed, underneath the brim.
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| Just somewhere west of Winton mate is where I’d rather be
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| To ride out in the dawn time, Mitchell to my horses knee
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| Unroll my swag beside a fire of some long forgotten camp
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| If I listen close maybe I’ll hear a tethered night horse stamp.
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| Just to see again the sunsets as the night falls on the land
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| Oh the silent sound of beauty makes the proudest heart expand
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| Where the lights of some old homestead beam a warm and welcome glow
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| And no travellin' soul went hungry in those days of long ago.
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| I see a dried up sandy creekbed when the dry comes much too soon
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| Watch the wild mob paw for water 'neath an early rising moon
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| Maybe I’ll see the dust cloud rising from the travellin' mob again
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| Hear the whips crack on the tailers as they cross the open plain.
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| Just somewhere west of Winton mate is where I’d rather be
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| To ride out in the dawn time, Mitchell to my horses knee
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| Unroll my swag beside a fire of some long forgotten camp
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| If I listen close maybe I’ll hear a tethered night horse stamp. |