THUNDERBOLT
      by Pannifex & Cumming
There's a graveyard in Uralla,
That's in New South Wales you know,
Where a highwayman was buried
Many, many years ago.
       Thunderbolt his tombstone names him,
       He who rides the road at night,
         Those who've met him in the moonlight
         Say he's Thunderbolt all right!

Refrain.

Thunderbolt! It's Thunderbolt!
Riding to Uralla,
From the Moonbi Ranges
As he used to ride of yore;
The past returns to meet him,
And his ghostly friends to greet him,
But he needn't fear the troopers.
He is safe for ever more!

People loved this handsome outlaw,
People loved him far and wide,
Tried to guard him from the troopers
When he roamed the countryside.
Housewives used to hang a blanket
As a signal on the line. -
Red ones said "Look Out for troopers!"
White ones asked him in to dine!

Came the day that shocked New England,
Someone told the police he'd seen
Thunderbolt with pals at Blanche's
Raising glasses to the Queen.
Swift the troopers rode to take him,
Even to this day folk speak
Of the way the trooper shot him,
Shot him by Kentucky Creek.

There's a legend in New England,
Thunderbolt has never died,
Still he haunts the Moonbi Ranges
And the lovely countryside.
Folk declare that they have seen him
When the moon is on the wane,
Riding like a flash of lightning
To Uralla once again!

There is a note to this poem by Mrs Mary Pannifex to the effect that it was the first song ever to gain a Grenfell Henry Lawson Song Award. It was sung at the Festival's Concert at Grenfell in June 1963 by Adrian Holt, a "New Australian,' from Austria.

Thunderbolt

written by Graham Roger for Barry Sinclair 2005

On the eleventh of September back in 1863
A young man by the name of Frederick Ward
Escaped from lawful custody with a vow that he'd live free
And so the Legend "Thunderbolt" was born.

He traveled far and wide across the north of New South Wales
As a bushranger and horseman of renown,
Respected by the settlers for the courage he displayed,
Despised by the Police who tracked him down.

He became the scourge of Cobb and Co, the hotels and the stores
As the words “Bail Up” resounded 'cross the land,
Too cunning for his victims and just too fast for the Law.
Thunderbolt would always gain the upper hand.

For six long years he plied his trade, a victim of the times,
When the governments and law had an iron hold,
And the punishment they handed down would far outweigh the crime,
All Australians felt for Captain Thunderbolt

Thunderbolt, Thunderbolt,
Do you still ride the wild New England like you did so long ago?
Do the icy winter winds that chilled your body to the bone
Still whisper the name Thunderbolt?

The Word went out one afternoon that Thunderbolt was seen,
Near Blanch's Inn south of Uralla town.
Two troopers armed with pistols, rode to bring the outlaw in,
Dead or alive, no taking chances now.

Well Thunderbolt took up the lead, he was racing like the wind,
But his horse began to fail and lose its ground,
And young trooper, Alex Walker, was now quickly closing in
His pistol drawn to bring the outlaw down.

They came upon a water hole that blocked the outlaws path.
He knew now that his race was finally run,
He plunged into the water with the trooper closing fast,
He cried, I'll die before the law will take me in.

A shot rang out with a deadly thud as the bullet found its mark.
The water in the creek turned crimson red.
One final lunge for freedom but his strength was failing fast,
A moment later Thunderbolt lay dead.

Thunderbolt, Thunderbolt,
Do you still ride the wild New England like you did so long ago?
Do the icy winter winds that chilled your body to the bone
Still whisper the name Thunderbolt?
Still whisper the name Thunderbolt.

THUNDERBOLT'S SONG

by Eve Hobbs

I stand in the saddle and stretch my hand
To a little niche in the stone,
And I pull myself to the top of the rock
To make sure that I am alone

Then back down into the saddle
And away on the Northern Road,
For Cobb and Co. are on their way,
And I want some of their load.

The men will be red with anger
As I take their silver & gold,
And the women white & frightened,
For I am a bushranger bold

           Then back I ride to the mountains,
            To hide till the hunt cools down,
           Then I'll share my spoils with the needy folk
            Who live in Uralla Town.

            I love this wild north country
          As I ride with the wild and the free.
          And my horse and I are like brother's
          For he shared my dangers with me.

          Then I ride to the old Green Valley pub
          There they smuggle me in the back door
           And I drink their wine and eat my fill
           Until I can take no more.

           Old John Smith guards the window,
          While Young Bill keeps watch at the door.
          Peacefully I sleep wrapped in blankets
              In a makeshift bunk on the floor.

   But the daylight comes & I must be off
And I join with the birds and sing.
The wild bees buzz around my face
And life is a goodly thing.

But the Policeman must have his turn someday
And I hope that my blood runs free,
To sleep in the earth by a reedy creek
Or under a blood-wood tree

But my spirit will ride that Northern Road,
Ride to a well-known spot
And I'll stand in my saddle and place my hand
In a little niche in the rock.

     And I'll stand again on my look-out,
     For there's no Bars or locks,
     And I'll thank the folk of Uralla town
     For giving me Thunderbolt's Rock

A Day's Ride
by Anon
Bold are the mounted robbers who on stolen horses ride
And bold the mouted troopers who patrol the Sydney side;
But few of them, though flash they be, can ride, and few can fight
As Walker did, for lfe and death, with Ward the other night.
It seems the troopers heard that Ward, well known as Thunderbolt,
An outlaw thief, was down near Blanch's to try a fresh roped colt.
(Not far from Armidale, that spot for brilliantrs so renowned -
Although the talked-of diamonds now are seldom found).
Said Alex Walker as he clapped his sadle on his steed,
"If I catch sight of Ward today I'll try his horse for speed;
Up hill or down, 'tis all the same, I know my nag can stay"-
Then got his arms, and galloped off, all ready for the fray.
Soon as he got near Thunderbolt, the first salute he got
From that retreating party was a pistol shot;
The robber fled, the trooper went in chase, his spirits rose -
When Ward advised him to keep off, "Bosh, here goes."
As through the scrubby bush they sped, and timber-tangled brake,
Both held their horses well in hand, nor made the least mistake;
Easing his horse with judgemewnt then, the light-weight trooper raced -
Good jockey as the robber was, he found himself outpaced.
Mile after mile, rough ground and smooth, up hill and down the vale,
Steep rocky tracks they galloped o'er - Wards horse began to fail.
Scant time he had for firing, for whenever he looked back
Onwards his adversary pressed, fast nearing on his track.
On a creek pursued and pursuer still headed straight;
One hastening to avenge the law, his foe to meet his fate.
Ward, almost hopeless of escape, devised a desparet scheme -
Dismounting from his horse he swam the wide and rapid stream.
Cried Walker, "May my mothers's son forever be accursed
If now I fail to take him, but I'll stop his gallop first."
His pistol flashed, the stockhorse fell; cut off from all retreat
At bay the reckless outlaw stood, defiant in defeat.
"I will not surrender" was his cry, "before I do, I'll die"
"All right," his brave opponent said, "now for it, you or I."
A moments pause - a parley now - the trooper made a push
To grapple at close quarters with the trooper of the bush.
A shot - a blow - a struggle wild - the outlaw with a shriek
Relaxed his hold, and sank beneath the waters of the creek.
'Twas thus the dreaded robber's evil spirit passed away,
Vanquished by brave young Walker, now the hero of the day.
Heneforth those loafing swagmen who aroud the stations coil,
Exchange lies at night until they see their billies boil,
At lambing-down or shearing time will tell with bated breath,
Of Walker's fight with Thunderbolt, that ride for life and death.

LAST OF THE GALLANTS
Written by Lindsay Young - Newcastle, 1997
On the grey rocky hills of New England..
’cross the rolling plains of the Northwest,
In the gorges high up around Barrington way..
Where creeks burst from mountainous crest,
There once travelled a son of Australia….
Clad in moleskins and cabbage tree hat,
And one bitter taste of the cruel prison life
Made him vow he would never go back.
In the bush there were plenty who helped him..
And the “blood money” never was claimed,
All shared the same cause, when colonial laws
Made the poorest folk shoulder the blame.
Seven years he eluded his hunters,
And ‘tis true that he bailed up the roads,
But never once took from the needy..
For such was the “Thunderbolt” code.
Through the maze of a eucalypt jungle,
Many thousands of miles he did roam,
Was there ever a bushman to match him..
In any of Paterson’s poems?
He embarrassed the police and their owners..
He led them a merry old chase,
Why.. they once contemplated a pardon for him,
As a desperate way to save face.
His part Aboriginal woman..
Rode beside him for much of the way,
She had pledged she would never desert him,
No matter the cards life would play.
Later she died in the mountains
And “Thunderbolt” wept for his mate ,
He entrusted their children to family friends,
Rode off, to a meeting with fate.
1870 out near Uralla,
There unhorsed in a waterhole bog,
Though he’d never drawn blood in his exploits,
He was cornered and shot…like a dog.
But there’s still some of us who remember…
And the legend we like to relate.
We raise up a glass to Fred Ward now and then..
And regret we’re a century too late.
Some will argue that he was a villain,..
A robber..a fugitive breed,
But you look in the newspapers daily,
Read of corporate kings and their greed,
See corruption and graft in high places,
See the laws which so often are blind,
It is there you will find you the evil….
Not in old “Thunderbolt” and his kind.
On some wint’ry nights in New England,
When the swirling cold fog settles in,
Does a lone ghostly figure ride down from the rock…
To the ruins of old Blanche’s Inn?
Swinging down from the saddle of “Combo”
To issue an eerie decree:
“Bail up lads….I’m “Thunderbolt”,…
I am Fred Ward,…tonight all the drinks are on me”.

Captain Thunderbolt
Written by Wendy Wood of Tamworth
There’s a legend in New England
Of a stockman good and true,
Who fell in with some horse thieves
And was sent to Cockatoo.
He had helped to drive some horses,
To Windsor town to sell,
And soon he was arrested
To serve his time in hell.
He escaped in 1863,
And Fred Ward was his name,
With the help of a young servant girl,
Began bushranging games.
Mary Ann was ever faithful,
And soon became his wife
But in the spring of 67
Her arrest would end her life.
They called him Captain Thunderbolt,
Bushranger of renown.
He rode around New England
Down to Uralla town.
The ladies hearts would flutter,
And the men folk shook with fear,
Whenever they heard mention,
That Thunderbolt was near.
Bailing up the mail coach,
In a gentlemanly way,
Daring feats he did perform,
The troopers to evade.
After holding up a German Band,
One bright and sunny morn,
He took of their possessions,
Then asked them to perform.
But on that final fateful day,
The last he was to see,
A hawker had alerted
The troopers 1, 2, 3.
They caught him at Kentucky Creek,
Surrender he would not,
And while trying to drag the trooper down,
Thunderbolt was shot.
They called him Captain Thunderbolt,………………
There’s some around New England,
That say he’s still alive,
And haunts the Moonbi Ranges,
Determined to survive.
So if you see him one bright night,
When the moon is shining down,
He’s just driving borrowed horses
Back to Uralla Town.
They called him Captain Thunderbolt,………….
They called him Captain Thunderbolt.
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