He sat by the door of the grand old Birdsville Pub,
His swag and gear was guarded by a faithful heeler dog,
He wore a shirt that would blind ya and a rumpled 
ringer's hat,
This old man was country, he left no doubt of that.

There was red shift in the lines of his weather beaten 
face,
His eyes had seen a lot of changes in the Aussie race,
I'll sing of the horsemen, the depth of the name,
Seems to me he's out, that he turned the better ?pane?

He sat there hillbilly pickin' on a cracked and 
battered Gibson,
And the songs that he sang were all his,
Every song told a story and the more that I listened,
The more I realised this is where country is.

Well he sang of mobs of cattle moving down the 
Birdsville track,
And the camels carting wool in the early days outback,
night,
Tryin' to ring the mob, 'cause lightning's quick to 
fright.

And he sang loudly and proudly of our pioneering race,
I suspect that once that flat was his,
Oh this is early frontier country, lonely dirt floor 
hut,
No doubt about it, this man knows where country is.

Well his songs told how they did it and I felt a sense 
of shame,
And I wondered if the battler would ever be again,
His pride for his country rang true in every song,
And I wondered if the chips were down if I would be as 
strong.

He sat there hillbilly pickin' on a cracked and 
battered Gibson,
And the songs that he sang were all his,
Every song told a story and the more that I listened,
The more I realised this is where country is.

{spoken}
Yes mate, No problem there, You know what? Where 
country is. [fade out]