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 bastard 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