A Mountain Station    

I bought a run a while ago,  

On country rough and ridgy, 

Where wallaroos and wombats grow –  

The Upper Murrumbidgee. 

The grass is rather scant, it's true,

But this a fair exchange is, 

The sheep can see a lovely view  

By climbing up the ranges.

And She-oak Flat's the station's name,  

I'm not surprised at that, sirs: 

The oaks were there before I came,  

And I supplied the flat, sirs. 

A man would wonder how it's done,  

The stock so soon decreases – 

They sometimes tumble off the run  

And break themselves to pieces. 

I've tried to make expenses meet,  

But wasted all my labours, 

The sheep the dingoes didn't eat  

Were stolen by the neighbours. 

They stole my pears – my native pears –  

Those thrice-convicted felons, 

And ravished from me unawares  

My crop of paddy-melons. 

And sometimes under sunny skies,  

Without an explanation, 

The Murrumbidgee used to rise  

And overflow the station. 

But this was caused (as now I know)  

When summer sunshine glowing 

Had melted all Kiandra's snow  

And set the river going. 

And in the news, perhaps you read:  

`Stock passings.  Puckawidgee, 

Fat cattle:  Seven hundred head  

Swept down the Murrumbidgee; 

Their destination's quite obscure,  

But, somehow, there's a notion, 

Unless the river falls, they're sure  

To reach the Southern Ocean.' 

So after that I'll give it best;  

No more with Fate I'll battle. 

I'll let the river take the rest,  

For those were all my cattle. 

And with one comprehensive curse  

I close my brief narration, 

And advertise it in my verse – 

`For Sale!  A Mountain Station.' 

The Bulletin, 19 December 1891

The Road to Hogan’s Gap

Now look, y’ see, it's this way like —

Y’ cross the broken bridge

And run the crick down, till y’ strike

The second right-hand ridge.

The track is hard to see in parts,

But it’s still pretty clear;

There’s been two Injin hawkers’ carts

Along the road this year.

Well, run that right-hand ridge along,

It ain’t, to say, too steep.

There’s two fresh tracks might put y’ wrong

Where blokes went out with sheep.

But keep the crick upon your right,

And follow pretty straight

Along the spur, until y’ 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’ll 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 getting 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 you first 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 that 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 on Hogan’s Gap.

They like to make it pretty strong

Whenever there’s a charnce;

So when a stranger comes along

They always hold a dance.

There’s recitations, songs, and fights,

They do the thing a treat.

There’s one long bloke up there recites

As well as e’er you’d meet.

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 a writ.

He reckoned if he faced the pull

And climbed the rocky stair,

The next to come might find his hide

A landmark on the mountain side,

Along with Hogan’s brindled bull

And Hogan’s old grey mare.

The Lone Hand, 1914

The Mountain Squatter

ThHere in my mountain home,  

On rugged hills and steep, 

I sit and watch you come,  

Oh Riverina Sheep! 

You come from fertile plains  

Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, 

And flats that (when it rains)  

Will blossom like the rose. 

But when the summer sun  

Gleams down like burnished brass 

You have to leave your run  

And hustle off for grass. 

'Tis then that – forced to roam –  

You come to where I keep, 

Here in my mountain home,  

A boarding-house for sheep. 

Around me where I sit  

The wary wombat goes, 

A beast of little wit 

But what he knows, he knows. 

The very same remark  

Applies to me also; 

I don't give out a spark,  

But what I know, I know. 

My brain perhaps would show  

No convolutions deep, 

But anyhow I know  

The way to handle sheep. 

These Riverina cracks,  

They do not care to ride 

The half-inch hanging tracks  

Along the mountain side. 

Their horses shake with fear  

When loosened boulders go, 

With leaps, like startled deer,  

Down to the gulfs below. 

Their very dogs will shirk,  

And drop their tails in fright 

When asked to go and work  

A mob that's out of sight. 

My little collie pup  

Works silently and wide; 

You'll see her climbing up  

Along the mountain side. 

As silent as a fox  

You'll see her come and go, 

A shadow through the rocks  

Where ash and messmate grow. 

Then, lost to sight and sound  

Behind some rugged steep, 

She works her way around  

And gathers up the sheep; 

And working wide and shy,  

She holds them rounded up. 

The cash ain't coined to buy  

That little collie pup. 

And so I draw a screw  

For self and dog and keep 

To boundary ride for you,  

Oh Riverina Sheep! 

And when the autumn rain  

Has made the herbage grow, 

You travel off again,  

And glad – no doubt – to go. 

But some are left behind  

Around the mountain's spread, 

For those we cannot find  

We put them down as dead. 

But when we say adieu  

And close the boarding job, 

I always find a few  

Fresh earmarks in my mob. 

So what with those I sell,  

And what with those I keep, 

You pay me pretty well,  

Oh Riverina Sheep! 

It's up to me to shout  

Before we say goodbye – 

"Here's to a howlin' drought  

All west of Gundagai!" 

The Lone Hand, July 1915

The Lone Hand was a monthly literary magazine published between 1907 and 1928.