Video The Man From Snowy River de The Wayfarers 2025 Lyrics Lyrics

The Wayfarers - The Man From Snowy River Lyrics

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around that the colt from Old Regret had got away

And had joined the wild bush horses, he was worth a thousand pounds, so all the cracks had gathered to the fray

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far had mustered at the homestead overnight

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are and the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight



There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup and the old man with his hair as white as snow

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up, he would go wherever horse or man could go

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, no better horseman ever held the reins

For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand and he learnt to ride while droving on the plains



And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, he was something like a racehorse undersized

With a touch of Timor pony, three parts thoroughbred at least and such as are by mountain horsemen prized

He was hard and tough and wiry, just the sort that won't say die, there was courage in his quick impatient tread

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye and the proud and lofty carriage of his head



But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay and the old man said, that horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop lad, you'd better stop away, those hills are far too rough for such as you

So he waited sad and wistful, only Clancy stood his friend, oh I think we ought to let him come, he said

And I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, for both his horse and he are mountain bred



Oh he hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough

Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride and the man that holds his own is good enough

And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, where the river runs those giant hills between

I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, but nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen



So he went, they found the horses by the big mimosa clump, they raced away towards the mountain's brow

And the old man gave his orders, boys, go at 'em from the jump, no use to try for fancy ridin' now

And Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right and ride boldly lad, and never fear the spills

For never yet was rider that could keep that mob in sight, if once they gain the shelter of those hills



So Clancy rode to wheel them, he was racing on the wing, where the best and boldest riders take their place

And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring, with his stockwhip, as he met them face to face

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, but they saw their well beloved mountain full in view

And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash and off into the mountain scrub they flew



Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black resounded to the thunder of their tread

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back from cliffs and crags that beetled overhead

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way where Kurrajong and Mountain Ash grew wide

And the old man muttered fiercely, we may bid the mob g'day, no man can hold them down the other side



When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, it well might make the boldest hold their breath

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full, of wombat holes, and any slip was death

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head and he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, while the others stood and watched in very fear



He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, oh he cleared the fallen timber in his stride

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat, it was grand to see that mountain horseman ride

Through the stringy barks and saplings on the rough and broken ground, down the hillside at a racing pace he went

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, at the bottom of the terrible descent



He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill and the watchers on the mountain standing mute

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still as he raced across the clearing in pursuit

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met, in the ranges over the final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, with the man from Snowy River at their heels



And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam, he followed like a bloodhound on their track

Till they halted, cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home and alone and unassisted brought them back

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, he was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, for never yet was mountain horse a cur



And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise, their torn and rugged battlements on high

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze, at midnight in the cold and frosty sky

And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway to the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide

Oh the man from Snowy River is a household word today and stockmen tell the story of his ride

And stockmen tell the story of his ride, and stockmen tell the story of his ride, and stockmen tell the story of his ride[fade]