'Tis a legend of the bushmen from the days of 
Cunningham,
When he opened up the country and the early squatters 
came.
"Tis the old tale of a fortune missed by men who did 
seek,
And, perhaps, you haven't heard it, The Brass Well on 
Myall Creek.

They were north of running rivers, they were south of 
Queensland rains,
And a blazing drought was scorching every grass-blade 
from the plains;
So the stockmen drove the cattle to the range where 
there was grass,
And a couple sunk a well and found what they believed 
was brass. 

"Here's some bloomin' brass!" they muttered when they 
found it in the clay,
And they thought no more about it and in time they went 
away;
But they heard of gold, and saw it, somewhere down by 
Inverell,
And they felt and weighed it, crying: "Hell! we found 
it in the well!" 

[Instrumental]

And they worked about the station and at times they 
took the track,
Always meaning to save money, always meaning to go 
back,
like wrecks,
And they'd get half way to Myall, strike a pub and blow 
their cheques. 

Then they told two more about it and those other two 
grew old,
And they never found the brass well and they never 
found the gold.
For the scrub grows dense and quickly and, though many 
went to seek,
No one ever struck the lost track to the Well on Myall 
Creek. 

And the story is forgotten and I'm sitting here, alas!
With a woeful load of trouble and a woeful lack of 
brass;
But I dream at times that I might find what many went 
to seek,
That my luck might lead my footsteps to the Well on 
Myall Creek.

'Tis a legend of the bushmen from the days of 
Cunningham,
When he opened up the country and the early squatters 
came.
'Tis the old tale of a fortune missed by men who did 
seek,
And, perhaps, you haven't heard it, The Brass Well on 
Myall Creek.

And, perhaps, you haven't heard it, The Brass Well on 
Myall Creek.