Where has the Brumby Breaker gone, the man who lived by luck?
Well, chances are he's moved to town and drives a council truck.
All the Smithies and the Settlers have taken to the track.
The stockmen now ride motorbikes when their muster mobs out back.
The northern runs are owned by yanks, they bought up every head.
The rivers are polluted and the barum and his dead.
The old-time ringers are no more and the stock camp's further out.
And half their scrubbers drowned in flood and the rest died in a drought.
But they drink it down and nearly drowned as fast as they ever did.
Only one thing hasn't changed out back, the pubs still make a quit.
The Swaggies never boil their billies by the billabong.
And shearers camp in caravans and seldom sing a song.
Along the stock route south and north, the bright stars overhead.
Drovers camp in city style with white sheets on the bed.
The kangaroos have fled the plain and gone is the dingo dog.
The wallabies have left the hill and the buffalo from the bog.
And a motel stands upon the spot where a bushranger once lived.
Only one thing hasn't changed out back, the pubs still make a quit.
But they drink it down and nearly drowned as fast as they ever did.
Only one thing hasn't changed out back, the pubs still make a quit.
The station homestead is a wreck and the water holes are dry.
And cattle leave their sorry bones beneath the deadly sky.
And the jackaroo rolled up his swag, he didn't like the grub.
And now he's working overtime at some flea-bitten pub.
Yeah, they drink it down and nearly drowned as much as they ever did.
Only one thing hasn't changed out back, the pubs still make a quit.
Only one thing hasn't changed out back, the pubs still make a quit.
Yodel-ee, yodel-ee, yodel-ee.