- Page 4 -
The Andrew B. 'Banjo' Paterson
Poetry Library
Poetry
- The Road to Hogan�s Gap -
[ Historical Note: this is taken from a 1895 -
Australian Frontier Poetic �Ledger� of the time ]
NOW look, you see, it�s this way like,
You cross the broken bridge
And run the crick down till you strike
The second right-hand ridge.
The track is hard to see in parts,
But still it�s pretty clear;
There�s been two Injin hawkers� carts
Along that road this year.
Well, run that right-hand ridge along�
It ain�t, to say, too steep�
There�s two fresh tracks might put you wrong
Where blokes went out with sheep.
But keep the crick upon your right,
And follow pretty straight
Along the spur, until you sight
A wire and sapling gate.
Well, that�s where Hogan�s old grey mare
Fell off and broke her back;
You�ll see her carcase layin� there,
Jist down below the track.
And then you drop two mile, or three,
It�s pretty steep and blind;
You want to go and fall a tree
And tie it on behind.
And then you pass a broken cart
Below a granite bluff;
And that is where you strike the part
They reckon pretty rough.
But by the time you�ve got that far
It�s either cure or kill,
So turn your horses round the spur
And face �em up the hill.
For look, if you should miss the slope
And get below the track,
You haven�t got the whitest hope
Of ever gettin� back.
An� half way up you�ll see the hide
Of Hogan�s brindled bull;
Well, mind and keep the right-hand side,
The left�s too steep a pull.
And both the banks is full of cracks;
An� just about at dark
You�ll see the last year�s bullock tracks
Where Hogan drew the bark.
The marks is old and pretty faint�
And grown with scrub and such;
Of course the track to Hogan�s ain�t
A road that�s travelled much.
But turn and run the tracks along
For half a mile or more,
And then, of course, you can�t go wrong�
You�re right at Hogan�s door.
When first you come to Hogan�s gate
He mightn�t show, perhaps;
He�s pretty sure to plant and wait
To see it ain�t the traps.
I wouldn�t call it good enough
To let your horses out;
There�s some that�s pretty extra rough
Is livin� round about.
It�s likely if your horses did
Get feedin� near the track,
It�s goin� to cost at least a quid
Or more to get them back.
So, if you find they�re off the place,
It�s up to you to go
And flash a quid in Hogan�s face�
He�ll know the blokes that know.
But listen�if you�re feelin� dry,
Just see there�s no one near,
And go and wink the other eye
And ask for ginger beer.
The blokes come in from near and far
To sample Hogan�s pop;
They reckon once they breast the bar
They stay there till they drop.
On Sundays you can see them spread
Like flies around the tap.
It�s like that song "The Livin� Dead"
Up there at Hogan�s Gap.
They like to make it pretty strong
Whenever there�s a charnce;
So when a stranger comes along
They always holds a dance.
There�s recitations, songs, and fights�
A willin� lot you�ll meet.
There�s one long bloke up there recites,
I tell you�he�s a treat.
They�re lively blokes all right up there,
It�s never dull a day.
I�d go meself if I could spare
The time to get away.
. . . . .
The stranger turned his horses quick.
He didn�t cross the bridge;
He didn�t go along the crick
To strike the second ridge;
He didn�t make the trip, because
He wasn�t feeling fit.
His business up at Hogan�s was
To serve him with a writ.
He reckoned if he faced the pull
And climbed the rocky stair,
The next to come might find his hide
A land-mark on the mountain side,
Along with Hogan�s brindled bull
And Hogan�s old grey mare!
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Page 5
The Man from Ironbark
Andrew Barton �Banjo� Paterson
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Reader�s Note:
Ironbark - a small settlement out in the sticks.
Sydney - One of the few major cities in Australia at the time.
Sydney toff - Sydney fashion fad
razor-back - opposite side of razor from the blade
__________________________________________________
IT WAS the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber�s shop.
"�Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I�ll be a man of mark,
I�ll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark."
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered "Here�s a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark."
There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber�s wall,
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,
"I�ll make this bloomin� yokel think his bloomin� throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
"I s�pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."
A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman�s chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim�s throat;
Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark�
No doubt it fairly took him in�the man from Ironbark.
He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd�rous foe:
"You�ve done for me! you dog, I�m beat! One hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you�ll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark."
He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber�s jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And "Murder! Bloody Murder!" yelled the man from Ironbark.
A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said, "�Twas all in fun�
�Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone."
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that�s fine; a lively sort of lark;
I�d like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."
And now while round the shearing floor the list�ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o�er and o�er, and brags of his escape.
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I�ve had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin� throat, but thank the Lord it�s tough."
And whether he�s believed or no, there�s one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.