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Bogan Dan

Edward S. Sorenson

For thirty odd years Dan has camped
    Among the Bogan bends,
And with Matilda up has tramped
    A track that never ends;
And since upon that course he’s spent
    Half life’s allotted span,
To every river resident
    He’s known as Bogan Dan.

He bears himself with lordly pride,
    Yet seldom owns a bob,
For though a hundred squatters chide,
    He’ll never take a job.
E’en when at times he helped a few
    Among the whaler clan,
They offered no reward who knew
    The creed of Bogan Dan.

‘Twas carved upon a bloodwood bole,
    The olden oath he swore:
“On land or sea for gilt nor dole,
    For man I’ll work no more!”
Man worked to live, and lived to work—
    It was a senseless plan;
So “ ‘long the streams where codfish lurk,
    I’ll live,” said Bogan Dan.

While up the southern bank he goes,
    Six merry months will glide,
And six months more he kicks his toes
    Adown the northern side.
Through flood and drought, it matters not,
    He ends where he began;
And camps upon the same old spot—
    The home of Bogan Dan.

The squatters dust his ration-bags,
    Remark he’s going grey
And ask about some station wags
    Five hundred miles away.
They tell him when the holes are dry,
    And where to fill his can;
And smilingly they say, “Good-bye,
    Till next year, Bogan Dan.”

He’s welcomed at the Bushmen’s camps,
    And round their glowing fires
He tells the gleanings of his tramps,
    The latest “mulga wires;”
When shearing starts, and sheds cut-out,
    Who’s married Nell or Nan;
And who is Smith’s new rouseabout,
    They learn from Bogan Dan.

Of Walgett, Gulgong, Nymagee,
    He hears while battling thro’
From Canonbar to Beemery,
    From Bourke to Dandaloo;
And if, perchance, you want to know,
    On tracks of team and van,
Who drives the mail for Cobb and Co.,
    Inquire of Bogan Dan.

He knows the station-runs and men
    The Bogan country thro’,
And talks of “Greenhide Jack” and Ben,
    The newchum jackeroo;
Where old Bill went who got the sack,
    Who works, for “Long” McCann,
And stirring yarns of white and black,
    Are told by Bogan Dan.

The half-worn hats and soleless boots,
    Cast off by Bill and Sam,
Together with discarded suits,
    Are good enough for him;
And if occasionally he cooks
    Some wood-grubs in a pan,
Or carnies roasts in lonely nooks,
    “They fill,” says Bogan Dan.

His swag is filled with odds and ends
    He’s gleaned along the road,
Which he will sell to passing friends,
    Perchance to ease his load;
While some he gives to fellow-tramps,
    Decrepit, old and wan,
Who cannot reach the sundown camps
    As soon as Bogan Dan.

So on past station-dam and tank,
    And cross where runs divide,
He plods on up the southern bank,
    And down the northern side;
And settlers wonder now, as past
   He goes with swag and can,
What well-known camp will see the last
    Of poor old Bogan Dan.

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