letra de who's riding old harlequin now - slim dusty
they are mustering cattle on brigalow vale
where the stock-horses whinny and stamp,
and where long andy ferguson, you may go bail,
is yet boss on a cutting-out camp.
half the duffers i met would not know a fat steer
from a blessed old alderney cow.
whilst they’re mustering there i am wondering here
who is riding brown harlequin now?
are the pikers as wild and the scrubs
just as dense in the brigalow country as when
there was never a homestead and never a fence
between brigalow vale and the glen.
do they yard the big micks ‘neath the light of the
moon?
do the yard-wings re-echo the row
of stockwhips and hoof-beats?
and what sort of clown is there riding old harlequin
now?
[instrumental]
a demon to handle! a devil to ride,
small wonder the surcingle burst;
you’d have thought that he’d buck himself out of his
hide’
on the morning we saddled him first.
i’d a mind how he cow-kicked the spur on my boot,
and though long ago, still i vow,
if they’re wheeling a piker no new-chum galoot
would be riding old harlequin now!
i remember the boss how he chuckled and laughed
when they yarded the brown colt for me:
he’ll be steady enough when we finish the graft
and have cleaned up the scrubs of glen leigh
i am wondering today if the brown horse yet live,
for the fellow who broke him, i trow,
a long lease of soul-ease would willingly give
to be riding brown harlequin now!
do you think you can hold him? old ferguson said,
he was mounted on h-rnet, the grey;
i think harlequin heard him and he shook his lean head,
and he needed no holding that day.
not the touch from a spur, nor the sting from a whip
as he raced among deadwood and bough
while i sat fairly quiet and just let him rip
but who’s riding old harlequin now?
i could hear them a-crashing the gidgee in front
as the bryan colt streaked to the lead
whilst the boss and the boys were out of the hunt
for their horses lacked harlequin’s speed;
the pikers were yarded and skies growing dim
when old fergie was fain to allow:
the colt’s track through the scrub was a knocker to him
but who’s riding brown harlequin now?
from starlight to starlight – all day in between
the foam-flakes might fly from his bit,
but whatever the pace of the day’s work had been,
the brown gelding was eager and fit.
on the packhorse’s back they are fixing a load,
where the path climbs the hill’s gloomy brow;
they are mustering bullocks to send on the road,
but who’s riding old harlequin now?
yeah, they are mustering bullocks to send on the road,
but who’s riding old harlequin now?
oh yeah!
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