Deep in the heart of the outback where the golden eagles reside

The brumby herd runs fast and free across the great divide

Blacks, and bays, and duns galore, with flying manes and tails

They leave their hunters in the dust as they follow their ancient trails.

The brumby king is aging now, and he’s lost a step or two,

But still the highest honor he gets, so rare for horses to do –

He knows the treacherous, winding trails more than any horse alive

And when their safety’s in the clutch, he’s the reason they survive.

Years ago his tale began, when outback hunters came;

They needed better breeding stock, and brumbies were their game.

No faster, smarter horses lived that any hunters knew

So on they came with whirling ropes, and down the trails they flew.

The brumby king was a light gray colt, barely more than three;

When his mother fell to the hunter’s snare, he found himself in the lead.

Desperation pushed him on as escape he earnestly sought,

And all the brumbies followed him on, as for their freedom they fought.

Down the mountain trails they flew and through a rocky gorge,

Until they found a sheltered glade with heavy trees up o’er;

They stopped and blew and caught their breath, sagging to the ground,

But the brumby colt knew they weren’t safe, and circled back around.

His trembling ears caught a slipping sound, and carefully he stretched

To see what creature snuck around to spy on the hidden nest.

Hunter, no – a fable he was, known as Duffy by name,

Friend to all of honest hearts; and rescue was his aim.

“Come with me,” he breathed, and crossed a shallow river bed,

The gorge panned out to a rocky ledge where the waterfall was fed.

“It’s called the Silent Apocalypse,” he told the staring colt.

“The name is apt, as you shall see, if after dark you bolt.

Bring your herd in here, and if you leap from this very dot,

T’will look to all as if the thin air swallowed you on the spot.”

The colt didn’t really understand, but Duffy he did trust,

And snatched a little rest so he’d be ready for the dusk.

As darkness descended down the trail, the hunters also came,

And the brumby colt gathered all the rest to play the Duffy’s game.

They snorted loud and scurried round the rocks and through the creek,

Running hard with pounding hooves toward the jagged ledge’s peak.

Mist had come with darkness, and misty veils swirled eerily,

Hanging thick so beyond the ledge the hunters could not see.

Too late they saw the brumbies’ path, as they plunged into the gloom;

And sure the hunters were that they had fallen to their doom.

One alone stood shivering, a splendid light gray colt.

He eyed them with distaste, and from their presence feigned to bolt.

The hunters slowly circled, hoping one at least to hold,

But the brumby king their hope decried with a leap both strong and bold.

In splendid form he reared and leapt right through that misty night

His gray coat glistening silver as he floated out of sight.

The ground beneath was soft, and as he darted down the path,

His silvery, floating whinney rang suspiciously like a laugh.

Many times the hunters came, and many brumbies fell,

But the herd of the silver brumby king made tales the men still tell;

The Duffy, too, is fable-lore, for on that misty night

At the ledge of Silent Apocalypse, he gave the men a fright.

A-whooping and a-laughing, he stormed the hunters there,

Tangled them in their own ropes and leapt without a care.

Oft now, when hunters dare to look at the dark’ning mountainside,

They see the silver brumby king, and the Duffy at his side.