Banjo Paterson: Verses about Road

The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
The wine of youth is strong:
What need have we to count the hours?
The summer days are long.
But soon we find to our dismay
That we are drifting down
The barren slopes that fall away
Towards the foothills grim and grey
That lead to Old Man's Town.

And marching with us on the track
Full many friends we find:
We see them looking sadly back
For those who've dropped behind

But God forfend a fate so dread --
Alone to travel down
The dreary road we all must tread,
With faltering steps and whitening head,
The road to Old Man's Town!

The mountain road goes up and down
From Gundagai to Tumut Town
And, branching off, there runs a track
Across the foothills grim and black,

Across the plains and ranges grey
To Sydney city far away.

It came by chance one day that I
From Tumut rode to Gundagai,

And reached about the evening tide
The crossing where the roads divide;

And, waiting at the crossing place,
I saw a maiden fair of face,

With eyes of deepest violet blue,
And cheeks to match the rose in hue --

The fairest maids Australia knows
Are bred among the mountain snows.

Then, fearing I might go astray,
I asked if she could show the way.

Her voice might well a man bewitch --
Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.

"The tracks are clear," she made reply,
"And this goes down to Sydney Town,
And that one goes to Gundagai."

Then slowly, looking coyly back,
She went along the Sydney track

And I for one was well content
To go the road the lady went;

But round the turn a swain she met --
The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!

I turned and travelled with a sigh
The lonely road to Gundagai.

Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut out.
We'd whips and whips of Rhino as we meant to push about,
So we humped our blues serenely and made for Sydney town,
With a three-spot cheque between us, as wanted knocking down.

But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai
The road to Gundagai! Not five miles from Gundagai!
Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we struck the Murrumbidgee near the Yanko in a week,
And passed through old Narrandera and crossed the Burnet Creek.
And we never stopped at Wagga, for we'd Sydney in our eye.
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Oh, I've seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
And I've met with some of both, chaps, as has left me mighty queer;
But for beer to knock you sideways, and for girls to make you sigh,
You must camp at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked into the bar,
And we called for rum-an'-raspb'ry and a shilling each cigar.
But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I
And we camped at Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai.

In a week the spree was over and the cheque was all knocked down,
So we shouldered our "Matildas," and we turned our backs on town,
And the girls they stood a nobbler as we sadly said "Good bye,"
And we tramped from Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai;

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!