Trumby

Trumby was a ringer, a good one too at that, He could rake and ride a twister, throw a rope and fancy plait He could count a line a saddle, track a man lost in the night Trumby was a good boy but he couldn't read or write. Trumby was dependable, he never took to beer, The boss admired him so much, one day made him overseer It never went to Trumby's head, he didn't boast or skite Trumby was a good boy, but he couldn't read or write. The drought was on the country the grass in short supply The tanks were getting lower and the water holes near dry. Cattle started dying and releif was not insight, To estimate the losses Trumby couldn't read or write. He rode around the station pulling cattle from the bog, To save them being torn apart by eagles, crows and dogs, He saw a notice on a tree, it wasn't there last night, Trumby tried to understand, but he couldn't read or write. On bended knee down in the mud, Trumby had a drink, Swung the reigns and to his horse said "We go home I think", "Tell 'im boss about the sign, 'im read 'im good alright" "One day boss's missus teach 'im Trumby read and write." Well concern was felt for Trumby, he hadn't used his bed, Next day beside that muddy hole they found the ringer dead. And a piece of tin tied to a tree then caught the boss's eye, He read the words of 'Poison Here', and signed by Dogger Bry. Now the stock had never used that hole along that stoney creek, And Trumby's bag was empty it has freyed and sprung a leak The dogs were there in hundreds and the dogger in his plight, Told the boss he never knew poor Trumby couldn't read or write. Now Trumby was a ringer as solid as a post, His skin was black but his heart was white and that's what mattered most, Sometimes I think how sad it is in this world with all its might, That a man like Trumby met his death because he couldn't read or write