Now look, you see, itâ€™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 itâ€™s pretty clear; Thereâ€™s been two Injin hawkersâ€™ carts Along that road this year.
Well, run that right-hand ridge alongâ€” It ainâ€™t, to say, too steepâ€” Thereâ€™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, thatâ€™s where Hoganâ€™s old grey mare Fell off and broke her back; Youâ€™ll see her carcase layinâ€™ there, Jist down below the track.
And then you drop two mile, or three, Itâ€™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 youâ€™ve got that far Itâ€™s either cure or kill, So turn your horses round the spur And face â€™em up the hill.
For look, if you should miss the slope And get below the track, You havenâ€™t got the whitest hope Of ever gettinâ€™ back.
Anâ€™ half way up youâ€™ll see the hide Of Hoganâ€™s brindled bull; Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, The leftâ€™s too steep a pull.
And both the banks is full of cracks; Anâ€™ just about at dark Youâ€™ll see the last yearâ€™s bullock tracks Where Hogan drew the bark.
The marks is old and pretty faintâ€” And grown with scrub and such; Of course the track to Hoganâ€™s ainâ€™t A road thatâ€™s travelled much.
But turn and run the tracks along For half a mile or more, And then, of course, you canâ€™t go wrongâ€” Youâ€™re right at Hoganâ€™s door.
When first you come to Hoganâ€™s gate He mightnâ€™t show, perhaps; Heâ€™s pretty sure to plant and wait To see it ainâ€™t the traps.
I wouldnâ€™t call it good enough To let your horses out; Thereâ€™s some thatâ€™s pretty extra rough Is livinâ€™ round about.
Itâ€™s likely if your horses did Get feedinâ€™ near the track, Itâ€™s goinâ€™ to cost at least a quid Or more to get them back.
So, if you find theyâ€™re off the place, Itâ€™s up to you to go And flash a quid in Hoganâ€™s faceâ€” Heâ€™ll know the blokes that know.
But listenâ€”if youâ€™re feelinâ€™ dry, Just see thereâ€™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 Hoganâ€™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. Itâ€™s like that song â€œThe Livinâ€™ Deadâ€ Up there at Hoganâ€™s Gap.
They like to make it pretty strong Whenever thereâ€™s a charnce; So when a stranger comes along They always holds a dance.
Thereâ€™s recitations, songs, and fightsâ€” A willinâ€™ lot youâ€™ll meet. Thereâ€™s one long bloke up there recites, I tell youâ€”heâ€™s a treat.
Theyâ€™re lively blokes all right up there, Itâ€™s never dull a day. Iâ€™d go meself if I could spare The time to get away.
. . . . . The stranger turned his horses quick. He didnâ€™t cross the bridge; He didnâ€™t go along the crick To strike the second ridge;
He didnâ€™t make the trip, because He wasnâ€™t feeling fit. His business up at Hoganâ€™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 Hoganâ€™s brindled bull And Hoganâ€™s old grey mare!