The horse was a big chestnut stallion,
With blazed face and Arabian stance,
The rider was Jim “ Trick” O'Brien,
The chestnut was simply called Chance.
A boys dream was to straddle the chestnut,
Hold the reins in the lofty perch high,
Chance turns his head to the cowboy,
A smile in his brown equine eye!
The Trick, with tight hold on the halter,
Puffed on his curly stemmed pipe,
Which left brown stains on his moustache,
For he had puffed on it most of his life!
The Trick was a robust six-footer,
Posture all regal and proper,
A lifetime spent in the saddle,
An old outback mounted Copper.
Chance was a foal when Jim bought him,
And retired from the mounted police force,
They'd spend twenty- eight years as a double,
This tall bloke and his much taller horse!
Jim still had his uniform and saddle,
The cloth with insignia on,
Old rifle secure in its scabbard,
Boots spit polished till they shone.
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For years at the end of each January,
The twenty-sixth was Australia's big day,
The pair joined the floats and the marchers,
Out in front they led all the way.
Each morning Jim saddled his mate up,
They'd prance all the way round the block.
Ignoring the cars and the lorries,
As they stopped for a drink at the trough!
Soon Jim couldn't reach the stirrups,
Age for them both took its toll,
Jim harnessed old Chance in a Sulky,
Hessian rug to ward off the cold!
And then Jim's life was past eighty,
Sometimes you could hear a quiet laugh,
When he couldn't climb into the Sulky,
He'd sit side straddled on the shaft.
The grand chestnuts eyes were now dimmer,
The Trick's weren't very much better,
At last old Chance got his calling,
Horse heaven is now where he's settled.
Three weeks along and the Trick died,
To be with old Chance ain't so bad,
Few folks will recall Jim O'Brien,
I do, 'cause he was my Granddad.
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