Slim Dusty Brigalow Bill
To an old county town long ago,
Just as the evening sun went below,
Entered the hotel bar on the hill,
Stranger who called himself, Brigalow Bill.
Called for a glass of ale and a smoke,
Didn’t have much to say, hardly spoke,
Nothing about his past, did he tell,
Twenty five years ago, Brigalow Bill.
Fashion of dress and style of swag roll,
Even the way he walked plainly told,
Even the slightest glance would reveal,
City man breed and born, Brigalow Bill.
Over the years he sank further down,
He was the derelict drunk of the town,
Everyone laughed and teased him at will,
Topic of all their jokes, Brigalow Bill.
Anyone in the town on a spree,
Always had Brigalow Bill come to me,
Even in drink his tongue would be still,
Never spoke of his past, Brigalow Bill.
Then to the town a rodeo came,
One of the Brahma bulls broke its chain,
Everyone left the streets running wild,
Nobody saw a small wondering child.
Suddenly came a loud savage roar,
Out in the street they all looked and saw,
Stopped with a gun the beast lay there still,
Over the form of poor Brigalow Bill.
Brigalow Bill’s address in his grave,
Time for the unknown boy that he saved,
Nothing was known of his past until,
After the death of poor Brigalow Bill.
Photograph of his wife and a note,
Telling of her new love so she wrote,
Nothing was known of his past until,
After the death of poor Brigalow Bill.
Carried it to his grave, Brigalow Bill.
