Ken Ferguson poem

Posted on Friday, 4 May, 2012 by [email protected]

The Irishman  by Fergy (Constable Ken Ferguson)

It’s hard for me to write about a man I hardly knew,
After all when I first met him he was nearly eighty-two.
But if you have the time to stop a while and listen to my tale,
I want to give you my impression of a most outstanding male.

Was the conversation football or the latest Kruschev fuss,
Was it cricket, was it tennis or the new South Sydney bus,
Was it parliament or Council or the local paper news
Where ever men gathered you would hear him air his views.

The village of Manildra was his interest all his life
And in this he was assisted by his ever loving wife,
To the Club, and Pub, and dances and to meetings he would roam
But his greatest single interest was for happiness at home.

His Irish brogue and Irish wit in our hearts remembered long
Whether raised in friendly argument or lifted up in song.
“I remember” “I remember” he would start his ditty so,
And ere the story finished from our eyes the tears would flow.

He would reminisce on days gone by and things we’ve never seen,
On saddle horse and drovers and on hitching up the team.
Or maybe ‘twas the Blacksmith shop or the days of bread and water,
But then he’d say I’m going home. “My teeth are under water”.

He’d share a stout with Tommy, for St. Patrick he’d be gay,
But he’d return the shout for certain when it came to Orange-Man’s day,
With Ferguson and Kinsela and his old mate Benny Hall,
He’d mix with all and sundry, he knew and loved them all.

But it came to pass, as he knew it would, the fate of all mere man,
He was called to take an active part in a much much greater plan,
Twas a moment he’d prepared for, he knew the reward was high,
And no doubt he’s found his resting place way up in the clear blue sky.

The funeral left the little church, our hearts with sadness filled,
The chatter of the children, for a moment it was stilled,
A tribute to this fine man, the many people there,
With grief upon their faces and a stillness in the air.

At Meranburn they laid him down, never more to roam,
A pretty spot up on the hill that overlooked his home,
And from this spot his soul has gone to its eternal rest
And we say, “God bless old Mick Kelly”, for he was of the best.