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!