I'm the Man
Posted: Thu Aug 04, 2011 1:33 pm
I wrote this poem in April 1979 in response to an article in the Land newspaper about the true identity of the man from Snowy River.
"I'm the Man" was published the following week with my name at the foot of the poem, which brings me to 'how improtant is the author'.
Over the next few years I received or observed many copies of my poem with no link to my name at all.
I was given a copy of my poem which was printed in a Texas USA newspaper five years later, without my name.
A Victorian poet in 1994 actually asked me if I had ever 'heard the true story of the Man from Snowy River' He didn't know the authors name, but said it was sent to him by his daughter living in Perth. He said the writer didn't get a mention.
Ever since, I have always made sure that my name follows the the title of anything I write, no one ever seems to cut the title from a poem.
A good point to remember!
I'M the MAN.
© Frank Daniel Canowindra NSW April 1979.
I’m the one they talk about, the 'Man from Snowy River'.
The one who did those daring deeds that made old Clancy shiver.
It’s true, I had a skinny horse — he wasn’t all that hot,
but in days gone by one had to do his best with what he's got.
I came from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side.
As a lad I had no saddle and bareback I learnt to ride.
I heard about the escapee, the 'colt from old Regret',
and always one for a bit of fun, I joined up for a bet.
I turned up at the Homestead with that wild and woolly lot,
And the old man said I'd never do, 'wouldn’t keep up at a trot'.
But then my good friend Clancy stood up for me with a grin,
And the old man never argued 'cause he knew he couldn't win.
We galloped off into the hills, my horse was pulling badly,
Whenever we had company, that horse would go so madly.
We found a mob of brumbies and the colt was with them too,
As the old man gave his orders as off into the scrub they flew.
The stockmen rode to wheel them, Clancy raced along their wing,
And my young heart beat so rapidly as I heard his stockwhip ring.
When we reached the mountains summit, even Clancy pulled his steed,
But the yang that I was riding had no mouth and would not heed.
They say I swung my stockwhip round, they say I gave a cheer,
But I was struggling with my nag, those cheers were yells of fear.
It was only fear that saved me, fear had glued me to my seat,
And I never ever dared deny my confidence in that feat.
When I finally reached the bottom of that terrible descent,
I saw a wisp of dust to tell which way the brumbies went.
I found them in a dead-ender, in a gully walled with stone,
and that's how I came to turn 'em back, and how I did it on my own.
I know I haven't got the right to stake my claim to fame,
but having set the story straight I'll just leave out my name.
"I'm the Man" was published the following week with my name at the foot of the poem, which brings me to 'how improtant is the author'.
Over the next few years I received or observed many copies of my poem with no link to my name at all.
I was given a copy of my poem which was printed in a Texas USA newspaper five years later, without my name.
A Victorian poet in 1994 actually asked me if I had ever 'heard the true story of the Man from Snowy River' He didn't know the authors name, but said it was sent to him by his daughter living in Perth. He said the writer didn't get a mention.
Ever since, I have always made sure that my name follows the the title of anything I write, no one ever seems to cut the title from a poem.
A good point to remember!
I'M the MAN.
© Frank Daniel Canowindra NSW April 1979.
I’m the one they talk about, the 'Man from Snowy River'.
The one who did those daring deeds that made old Clancy shiver.
It’s true, I had a skinny horse — he wasn’t all that hot,
but in days gone by one had to do his best with what he's got.
I came from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side.
As a lad I had no saddle and bareback I learnt to ride.
I heard about the escapee, the 'colt from old Regret',
and always one for a bit of fun, I joined up for a bet.
I turned up at the Homestead with that wild and woolly lot,
And the old man said I'd never do, 'wouldn’t keep up at a trot'.
But then my good friend Clancy stood up for me with a grin,
And the old man never argued 'cause he knew he couldn't win.
We galloped off into the hills, my horse was pulling badly,
Whenever we had company, that horse would go so madly.
We found a mob of brumbies and the colt was with them too,
As the old man gave his orders as off into the scrub they flew.
The stockmen rode to wheel them, Clancy raced along their wing,
And my young heart beat so rapidly as I heard his stockwhip ring.
When we reached the mountains summit, even Clancy pulled his steed,
But the yang that I was riding had no mouth and would not heed.
They say I swung my stockwhip round, they say I gave a cheer,
But I was struggling with my nag, those cheers were yells of fear.
It was only fear that saved me, fear had glued me to my seat,
And I never ever dared deny my confidence in that feat.
When I finally reached the bottom of that terrible descent,
I saw a wisp of dust to tell which way the brumbies went.
I found them in a dead-ender, in a gully walled with stone,
and that's how I came to turn 'em back, and how I did it on my own.
I know I haven't got the right to stake my claim to fame,
but having set the story straight I'll just leave out my name.
