KL2

Red Kelly was caught for stealing Back in Ireland, his native land— Pigs, and maybe cattle too, Then shipped to Van Diemen’s Land. He carried all his mindset with him, Passed it to his growing brood. Ned was only eleven when Red died, But he’d already learned the attitude. The Irish selectors were tight‑knit, Most struggling to earn a penny. It had to be someone else’s fault— The police blamed as quick as any. Ned's first epistle was a plea for help, Addressed to Sergeant Babbington. Of course it came to nothing— The law ignored his shenanigans. Two assaults by the age of fifteen, Then caught on a stolen horse. Three long years he served for that; By eighteen, his path had its course. His riding with old Harry Power Added early to his fame. Harry was a known bushranger— So Ned was tarred the same. Ned and his cohort of bushrangers Had more than a little backing From selectors, Irish or not— It was authority he was attacking. The Fitzpatrick incident followed, Then Stringybark Creek’s grim killings. There was no coming back from that, But the gang lived by its own dealings. They held up the town of Euroa, Stripped the bank of its currency. Joe Byrne penned the Cameron letter, But Ned supplied it orally. He handed it to the Victorian polly He thought stood on the selectors’ side. It met the same fate as the former— Never published, never described. He’d worked with Dan in the shearing sheds, Dressed always in black clothing. Naturally they called him “Bishop”— My grandad, Alfred William Swalling. When the gang seized Jerilderie, Bishop happened to be around. But Ned said, “You can go, Bishop,” For Dan reckoned he was sound. He didn’t run to another town To tell the law what he’d seen. There was a toll for dobbing in Kellys— And supporters kept their noses clean. Ned dictated another letter to Joe— His writing was the best they had. He poured out all his grievances, The perceived injustices that drove him mad. It was meant for mass distribution— Fifty‑six pages of declaration, Seven thousand words and more Of Ned’s attempted justification. The Melbourne Age ran a synopsis In print in eighteen seventy‑nine. The full text wasn’t public till Nineteen Thirty But spread well down the Kelly line. Bishop was forgotten by history— His name appears on no list. But it lived on in family lore As the years slipped by into mist. Then to Glenrowan the gang rode in, This time with murder on the brain. They wrecked the rails at the bend To kill police on the special train. But the plan fell apart completely— The police were tipped off early. Schoolteacher Curnow warned the train, And the trap closed instead on the Kellys. Ned let the schoolteacher go— He’d shown humanity before. But then Bishop had left without a word, Never saying what he saw. Twelve hours later the inn burned down, Ned’s armour short above the knees. That’s how they finally brought him down— Hostages fled into the trees. Three gang bodies lay with him, And Ned, alive, the last to remember. June ended the reign of the Kellys; He was executed mid‑November. But rumours lingered about Dan— Escaping, living, dodging fate. My grandma, well into her nineties, Swore he lived on at Sandgate. She said the Kellys were only horse thieves— I'm still not sure what she meant. Was it that nothing ranks lower than horse thieves, Or she agreed with Jerilderie’s intent. So ends our saga of Kelly lore— The gang gone one hundred and forty years. But the land is still called Kelly Country, And the stories still reach new ears.