Slim Dusty Old Scobie
For a starter of description just to get the picture
right
Bowlegged, bold and lively, 5 foot 8 or 9 in height
Of stocky build, complexion dark, his age slow on the
rise
A smiling face and light grey hair and pale blue
western eyes.
A tough old stag he rolled his swag when itchy feet
took over
His place of birth? Well I dunno where the Mitchell
grasses grow
But I kinda get the notion as I carry on this ride
It was somewhere in the sand hills near the channel
country side
Oh he’ll make your bloody hair stand up with something
that occurred
And so unrealistic that at first you doubt his word
Every story is a boomer full of action, laughs and
strength
Why he’d stretch the Diamantina or the Cooper twice
their length
For years he was a drover in the days of bells and
packs
From the Canning to the Murranji and down the
Birdsville track
He was reared on ribs and brisket; don’t go in for
fancy stuff
And I guess that’s just the reason he’s so rugged hard
and rough
[Spoken] yeah he’s rough alright, like my guitar
playin’
When he rides around the cattle restless nights as
black as ink
Summer nights or freezing winter Scobie loves a rum to
drink
Oh I’d like to have the money that he’s spent on booze
and games
I could buy a cattle station and a brewery with the
change
Half Australia’s coloured stockmen, that’s including
women too
Will remember this old codger when their boomerangs
were new
They rode through scrub and lignum where a dog could
never bark
Flushing out defiant mickies, missing none though it
was dark
Yeah for years he was a drover in the days of bells and
packs
From the Canning to the Murranji and down the
Birdsville track
He was reared on ribs and brisket; don’t go in for
fancy stuff
And I guess that’s just the reason he’s so rugged hard
and rough
[Spoken] Here I go again now, all these fancy guitars
mmmmhmmm
When he’s drinking in the city townies grip the bar and
laugh
He’s a drover just delivered sand goannas all in calf
And when he tells a tall one, it’s Kosciusko high
Then quickly change direction and almost make you cry
When the Southern Cross and diamond tail at night
illuminate
I often think of Scobie waitin’ outside heavens’ gate
With his saddlebag and quartpot and branding iron worn
thin
Oh I’ll bet he’ll con St Peter and the old man lets him
in.