By Ray Rose.
He was lean as the old dog that walked by his side
and as tough as the tie strap he wore.
His face was a legend of living it hard
and his years numbered more than threescore.
His old eyes has seen more than we'll ever know
of the far reaches of the inland.
He was part of this country, it surely did show
like the scars on his work-hardened hands.
From the high crown old felt hat that sat on his head
to the scuffed and worn heels of his boots.
But his sweat cake spring leggings and old faded jeans
He was out back down to the grass-roots.
and his old chequered shirt with the collar all frayed
and the yard dust and flies on his back.
as he took out the makens before he sat down.
I knew this was a man, you could back.
He talked long and low of the country he'd seen
and the changes that came with the years
of the ne'er ending battle of living out here
the hardships, the heartbreak and tears.
The big droughts that took over and crippled the land
and the dust storms, with no sign of rain.
the creeks and the dams long empty and dry
and you wonder if they would e'er fill again.
He drew maps in the dust of the country he'd known
where water was sure to be found.
Pin pointed land marks, should someone go wrong
the type of terrain all around.
where the wild horses watered by light of the moon
and the gorges where old pikers feed.
Their pads aren't as deep as they were years ago.
Oh, They're part of a vanishing breed.
we got up and shook hands, and he said "so long mate"
with his hat knocked off the dust of his jeans
stamped on the butt ground, into the dust
Old habits die-hard, so it seems.
His old frame seemed much straighter, as he walked away
there was no'd much, he'd need.
He was part of our history, that shaped this old land.
Yes, part of a vanishing breed.
He was part of our history, that shaped this old land.
Part of a vanishing breed.
He was lean as the old dog that walked by his side
and as tough as the tie strap he wore.
His face was a legend of living it hard
and his years numbered more than threescore.
His old eyes has seen more than we'll ever know
of the far reaches of the inland.
He was part of this country, it surely did show
like the scars on his work-hardened hands.
From the high crown old felt hat that sat on his head
to the scuffed and worn heels of his boots.
But his sweat cake spring leggings and old faded jeans
He was out back down to the grass-roots.
and his old chequered shirt with the collar all frayed
and the yard dust and flies on his back.
as he took out the makens before he sat down.
I knew this was a man, you could back.
He talked long and low of the country he'd seen
and the changes that came with the years
of the ne'er ending battle of living out here
the hardships, the heartbreak and tears.
The big droughts that took over and crippled the land
and the dust storms, with no sign of rain.
the creeks and the dams long empty and dry
and you wonder if they would e'er fill again.
He drew maps in the dust of the country he'd known
where water was sure to be found.
Pin pointed land marks, should someone go wrong
the type of terrain all around.
where the wild horses watered by light of the moon
and the gorges where old pikers feed.
Their pads aren't as deep as they were years ago.
Oh, They're part of a vanishing breed.
we got up and shook hands, and he said "so long mate"
with his hat knocked off the dust of his jeans
stamped on the butt ground, into the dust
Old habits die-hard, so it seems.
His old frame seemed much straighter, as he walked away
there was no'd much, he'd need.
He was part of our history, that shaped this old land.
Yes, part of a vanishing breed.
He was part of our history, that shaped this old land.
Part of a vanishing breed.
