| Arcadia station has been cut into smaller blocks
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| new hones have been built upon the untamed land
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| and the graziers now, breed the best of station stock
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| in the beautiful valley in the Canarvon land
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| where the wild scrub bulls
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| with their mobs of cleanskins
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| would march into water just on sundown
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| then they ate the grass along the open valley
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| but at the crack of dawn
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| they were back in their hidin' ground
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| Away out there, where the wild Canarvon ranges rise
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| where the scrubbers used to roam
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| and the brigalow was their home
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| The scrubber runners
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| with their terriers and tie in straps
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| they could ride through the brigalow and never make a sound
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| but when the wallabys rushed
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| and the timber’s fallin' down
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| then the riders knew that the wild ones had been found
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| They’d follow their tails till they came to an open spot
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| then they’d call on their spurs and shoulder the best ones round
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| then they’d throw 'em by the tails
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| cut their horns and tie their legs
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| while the mob fanned out and made for safer ground
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| Away out there, where the wild Canarvon ranges rise
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| where the scrubbers used to roam
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| and the brigalow was their home
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| The scrubber runner is a wild and wiry
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| his life depends on his judgement of man and beast
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| and the ridin’s wild and there’s danger in the air
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| when the all fours of a scrub bull are released
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| but the scrubbers are gone from Arcadia valley
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| and every cattle pad the scrubber runner knows
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| and the brigalow scrub has been pulled and burned up
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| cultivation now where the old brown river flowed
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| Away out there where the wild Canarvon ranges rise
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| where the scrubbers used to roam
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| and the brigalow was their home
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| and the brigalow was their home
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| and the brigalow was their home
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| and the brigalow was their home |