He sat by the door of the grand old Birdsville Pub

His swag and gera was guarded by a faithful heeler dog

He wore a shirt that would blind ya and a rumpled ringer's 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 lightnin's quick to fright

CHORUS
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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 the 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 for his country rang true in every song

And I wondered if the chips were down if I would be as strong

CHORUS

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