Written by Dick Roberts
In a lonely forgotten nursing home sits a frail and tired old man,
His mind is shot, his body is weak and he can barely stand.
To the world he is just another, another soul waiting to die,
But to those who knew him, he was the man that roped the sky.
As he sits and waits for someone, someone to visit him,
His mind slips back to yesterday, as he light slowly dims.
He is now riding the stock routes, and the plains to the west,
But home in the snowy mountains is where he passed the test.
In search of straying cattle at every summers end,
With stock whip cracks and healer dogs that were his only friend,
He rode every ridge and gully, every pad and track,
And every year he never failed to bring the cattle back.
The long forgotten campfires, that marked the trails that he rode,
Fallen down old brumb yards and huts that where his abode.
Only the bush can tell the story, the story of him,
And to understand his legacy, you need to know his brand.
His brand was hobble chains and horse bells, branding irons and whips,
Cattle dogs, and station horses that would never quit,
The freedom of the high country and the smell of sweet perfume,
From the mountain ash and tea tree scents and wild flowers in bloom.
He loved the bush and it loved him, together they were one,
In his later years he spent his days riding with his sons,
Across the open plains of Kiandra or on the rugged Bago side,
He lived a life of freedom with his horses dogs and pride.
He is now on his last journey, one last trip to the bush,
Inside the bag on a packhorse, sits the Ashes of my dad Butch.
Taking him back home to the place that he loved best,
High up in the mountains, where he can lay to rest.
Nelle's journey 