He rambled and he gambled, and fire burned in his veins
He fought and swore and drank and danced, was dishonored for his pains
But he'd never cheat upon a friend, he lived by the bushman's code
And no man feared for wife or child where Jim Varela rode
But when a native stockman was smashed against a tree
He rode the forty miles for help through a night like ebony
And none could ride beside him when the scrubbers made their bid
With whip and spur he carved his name, the Jim Varela Kid
But who was it duffed the clean skins, who was it stole the horse
Who was it shot the squatter's bulls, they'll blame someone of course
But they have to find a scapegoat, or they can't find out who did
And they'll blame that wild young stockman, the Jim Varela Kid
A thousand head of cattle, camped by the wilga hole
A surging restless flighty mob, five stockmen in control
And riding up to see the herd, though her father might forbid
The squatter's daughter rode beside the Jim Varela Kid
And when the laughing couple rode by the wilga hole
They stirred a dingo from the wild dog's den


From the creek and across the flat he stole
It was then the new chum, Jackaroo, drew rifle from its sheath
And unheeded went the cry that ripped from Jim Varela's teeth
But who was it duffed the clean skins, who was it stole the horse
Who was it shot the squatter's bulls, they'll blame someone of course
But they have to find a scapegoat
And they can't find out who did
So they'll blame that wild young stockman, the Jim Varela Kid
The shot echoed across the flat as the dingo met his death
And a thousand head of cattle rose in a single breath
They swept down in an avalanche of hooves and horns
And for his life and for his love did Jim Barella ride
Two horses in a race for life spurred on by rain and heel
Till stumbling on a fallen tree the girl's mare began to reel
Then hurled its rider from its back as to the ground it slid
And to her side then swiftly left the Jim Barella kid
He used his body as a shield to save his only love
But the girl lay safe beneath him as death reigned from above
And now he sleeps forever out beneath the southern cross
And the squatter's daughter sadly mourns the Jim Barella's loss
But who was it doth the clean skins? Who was it stole the horse?
Who was it shot the squatter's bull?
They'll blame someone of course
But they'll have to find a scapegoat and blame someone in his stead
No more he'll be dishonoured
The Jim Barella's dead
The Jim Barella's dead