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The Ballad of Tom Findlay
His battered, stained and grubby hat set firmly on his head,
Big bushy beard all greying, the colour of old lead.
At home up in the saddle, with packhorse right behind,
And thirty eager baying dogs, all of the mongrel kind.
Twenty thousand acres, of hill and river flat,
To be rid of fox and rabbit, a mighty task was that!
A law unto himself on the Foxlow Station run,
He’d set off each morning well before the rising sun.
With dogs all milling round, and rabbit traps a jingling,
Tom Findlay was a sight to set the senses tingling.
And though we’d try to follow him on his daily rounds
Somehow he’d always vanish, with his thirty hounds.
He’d come riding back at sunset, packhorse loaded high,
With furry skins of rabbits and pelts of foxes sly.
Each worth an extra shilling, to supplement his wage,
An expert rabbiter was Tim Findlay, and wily outback sage.
None knew the Molonglo country as completely as this man,
His bushcraft and horsemanship knew no comparison.
When from the south, black clouds above the mountain range,
Conspired to drench the Foxlow Highlands, venting Nature’s rage.
The placid Molonglo River revolted in angry flood,
Spreading murky waters wide, in a sea of choking mud.
When lives and stock were threatened by these events so cruel,
At once all folk were gathered, as is the bush folk’s rule.
A mighty effort was mounted with sandbag and with shovel,
To save all homes downstream, whether homestead of poor hovel.
Together, station hand or grazier, toiled throughout the night,
Moving people and belongings, in a combined and massive fight.
When suddenly a call came in, of events so dire,
“Car trapped across the river!” “Waters rising higher!”
Tom Findlay was the first to rally to the call,
Saddling up his faithful mare, he didn’t pause at all.
Through pelting rain and muddy pools, across the flats he raced,
For without heroic effort, certain death that family faced.
Reaching the river’s raging torrent, he urged his steed to swim,
While clinging to the reigns and saddle, with hopes becoming dim.
Tom and horse swam strongly, with torrent raging wide,
A valiant battle they fought bravely to reach the other side.
A mile from their entry point, exhausted and half drowned,
Beneath their feet at last, they felt the firmness of the ground.
Mounting up once more, Tom pushed the old mare forward,
Though her gait was ambling, and becoming rather awkward.
Where the road once crossed the river at a quiet little fiord,
Two people clinging to their car, while around the waters roared.
A woman and young child, half frozen and beginning to despair,
Were reached by brave Tom Findlay, and his gallant little mare.
With waters swirling higher, their choice was swim or drown,
Tom quickly lashed them to the horse, while hiding worried frown.
Sensing the importance of her task, the mare found her second wind,
It kicked out once more gamely, whinnying above the rivers din.
With distant river bank hidden by the darkness of the night,
Tom’s resolve was undaunted, by their desperate plight.
But on the reigns his frozen hands began to lose their grasp,
“You’ll be alright. She’ll get you there!” was his desperate gasp.
While Tom was swept away in the river’s swirling flood,
The little mare reached safety, with its precious human load.
And though a search was mounted, along the river’s length,
They never found poor Tom, the hero whose great strength,
Had averted certain tragedy, on that black and treacherous night.
Death’s urgent call was a cruel conclusion to such a gallant fight.
And though much has happened since those eventful days,
If you travel the Molonglo valley during morning’s early haze,
Pause and listen carefully, in the quietness of the dawn.
You may hear a dull metallic jingle, somehow eerie and forlorn.
And as you focus in the distance, and stare across the grassy flats,
You may see the ghost of Tom Findlay, setting out to tend his traps!
Copyright 2002 Alan Greenhalgh
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Nice job on the poem.