He sat by the door of the grand old Birdsville Pub
His swag and gear guarded by a faithful heeler dog
He wore a shirt that would blind ya and a rumpled ringer’s hat
This old man was country, he left no doubt of that
There was legend in the lines of his weather beaten face
Those eyes had seen a lot of changes Aussie race
The passing of the horseman, the death of an ace
Seems to me he’s doubys, that we’ve turned a better page
He sat there hillbilly pickin' on a cracked and battered Gibson
And the songs that he sang were all his
Every song told a story and the more I’d listen
The more I realized this is where country is Well he sang of mobs of cattle moving down the Birdsville track
And the camels carting wool in the early days outback
He sang of wild eyed scrubbers ridin' flat out in the night
Tryin' to ring the mob, 'cause lightning’s quick to fright
And he sang loudly and proudly of our pioneering ladies and
I suspect that one such lass was his
Home in this early frontier country, was lonely dirt floor Humphrey
No doubt about it, this man knows where country is His songs told how they did it and I felt a sense of shame
And I wondered if the battler would ever be again
His pride for his country rang true in every song
And I wondered, if the chips were down, I would be as strong
He sat there hillbilly pickin' on a cracked and battered Gibson
And the songs that he sang were all his
Every song told a story and the more I’d listen
The more I realized this is where country is Spoken
You know what mate, we’re so far from the city here
Know what — that’s where country is, dust storms, flies
Fade out