There was movement at the Shamrock for the word had passed around
That the Hornet with Ol’ Bob had got away,
He’d hit wild and stormy weather, his GPS was broken down,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted pilots from the gliders near and far
Had mustered on the radio forthright,
For the pilots love hard flying where the soaring thermals are,
And the glider snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Libelle Bill, who made his pile when Gunsynd won the cup,
The old man with his glider as white as snow;
But few could fly beside him when his blood was fairly up
He would go wherever glider and pilot could go.
And Ian of Feranti came down to lend a hand,
No better pilot ever held the stick;
For never thermal could throw him while the seat belt straps would stand,
While strength remained or rudder left to kick
So he flew, but could not find the landmarks that they gave,
They looked for him towards the southern brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Bob, oh thirty you’ll fly safe,
No use to try for fancy flying now.
And Bob, be careful the weathers far from right.
Fly boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,”
But never Bob could keep Temora in his sight,
And so he flew and found himself above the hills.

And so Bob flew on – he was stretching that old kite
To where the best and boldest pilots fly with pride
Bob kept the Hornet flying, and the glider kept its height,
He cleared the stormy weather in his stride,
But when he reached the town limit, Bob took up a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The town was unrecognisable, and the ground beneath was full
Of an airport, but which, and any slip was death.

To safely land, an unknown field, presented no mean feat
But final glide was past, it was do or die
And Bob in his old Hornet never shifted in his seat
It was grand to see that pilot fly.
Through sinking troughs, over the rough and broken ground,
Down the circuit at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the airbrake till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
And down by Cootamundra, where the gum clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where at the airport emblazened on the roof it says
”COOTAMUNDRA” in letters very wide,
Bob of old Hornet is a household word to-day,
And the pilots tell the story of his glide.

FIRST PAGE..