The Ballad Of Clancy's Leaning Horse

An Australian ballad. With apologies to Banjo Paterson.

 

Long before the Overflow, the dappled sun-drenched plains;

Before the days of glory, young Clancy took the reins.

The lad was unremarkable, of manner softly spoken

His riding skills were average; his high voice barely broken.

Not yet the stuff of legend in bar-room rough discourse

Just what defined young Clancy was his oddly leaning horse.

 

Not distorted physically; of fetlocks, flanks or mane

The problem, said the stockman, seemed entirely in its brain.

No matter what the landscape, on the flat lands of the drover

The horse could never stand up straight; it simply tilted over.

Its heritage was dubious, the dry old bloke confided

Three-quarters Timor pony, one quarter undecided

But such things scarcely mattered, and time would soon endorse

The legend of young Clancy and his strangely slanted horse

 

“Here comes Clancy’s leaning horse!” would come the mirthful cry

That echoed down the Snowy as the drovers passed them by

A dozen mighty mountain steeds with fetlocks fine and straight

Then Clancy on his laughing stock with clumsy leaning gait

They rode together side by side, each stockman tall with pride

Except for Clancy - slouched upon his oddly leaning ride

 

And so it went, two summers long, the same old tiresome chants

Until that frightful winter when the Snowy broke its banks.

A dozen finest mountain men had rallied at the sight

When surging waters drove them back and cut them off from life

The cry went out from far and wide, the call to action made;

The finest of the Snowy men were desperate to be saved

 

There was movement at the station, for the word soon spread around

That Clancy and his crooked horse were headed river-bound

“Who’ll save us?” cried the drowning men “Who’ll stand the water’s force?”

“The only b*****d up to it is Clancy’s leaning horse!”

The water’s pull was mighty; the floods showed no abate

Against the wall of water, Clancy’s horse just stood up straight

 

A dozen times they waded in, the horse with steady gait

Young Clancy of the Overflow, with proud horse standing straight

A dozen times the waters rose and slanted to attack

A dozen times the horse strode out, a man upon its back

 

A full four hours later, standing safe on solid banks

The stockmen filed up one by one to mutter heartfelt thanks

Rough horsemen praised the plucky lad, and felt the pangs of guilt 

Young Clancy merely tipped his hat; his horse resumed its tilt

 

I still recall the Overflow, the dappled sun-drenched plains;

The glory days, the sunset’s haze - old Clancy at the reins

His riding skills now legend, his life a driving force

It still inspires one question at each end of day’s discourse

 

What lesson do we learn from this, as we put away our pride?

The man who found his greatness is the man we’d once deride

Perhaps a weakness hides a strength, if we’re willing to endorse;

Behind each man there clearly stands an oddly leaning horse.