For a starter of description just to get the picture 
right 
Bowlegged, bold and lively, 5 foot 8 or 9 in height
Of stocky build, complexion dark, his age slow on the 
rise
A smiling face and light grey hair and pale blue 
western eyes.

A tough old stag he rolled his swag when itchy feet 
took over
His place of birth? Well I dunno where the Mitchell 
grasses grow
But I kinda get the notion as I carry on this ride
It was somewhere in the sand hills near the channel 
country side 

Oh he'll make your bloody hair stand up with something 
that occurred
And so unrealistic that at first you doubt his word
Every story is a boomer full of action, laughs and 
strength
Why he'd stretch the Diamantina or the Cooper twice 
their length

For years he was a drover in the days of bells and 
packs
From the Canning to the Murranji and down the 
Birdsville track
He was reared on ribs and brisket; don't go in for 
fancy stuff
And I guess that's just the reason he's so rugged hard 
and rough

[Spoken] yeah he's rough alright, like my guitar 
playin' 

When he rides around the cattle restless nights as 
black as ink
Summer nights or freezing winter Scobie loves a rum to 
Oh I'd like to have the money that he's spent on booze 
and games
I could buy a cattle station and a brewery with the 
change

Half Australia's coloured stockmen, that's including 
women too
Will remember this old codger when their boomerangs 
were new
They rode through scrub and lignum where a dog could 
never bark
Flushing out defiant mickies, missing none though it 
was dark

Yeah for years he was a drover in the days of bells and 
packs
From the Canning to the Murranji and down the 
Birdsville track
He was reared on ribs and brisket; don't go in for 
fancy stuff
And I guess that's just the reason he's so rugged hard 
and rough

[Spoken] Here I go again now, all these fancy guitars 
mmmmhmmm 

When he's drinking in the city townies grip the bar and 
laugh
He's a drover just delivered sand goannas all in calf
And when he tells a tall one, it's Kosciusko high
Then quickly change direction and almost make you cry

When the Southern Cross and diamond tail at night 
illuminate
I often think of Scobie waitin' outside heavens' gate
With his saddlebag and quartpot and branding iron worn 
thin
Oh I'll bet he'll con St Peter and the old man lets him 
in.