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The Gate Hotel

Edward S. Sorenson

“We’ll, stop awhile and refresh,” said Dan,
    When we get to the Gate Hotel;
From camp to camp ‘tis a lonely span,
And the road we travel is hard on a man,
    And rough on the mokes as well.”

With bridles swinging, in haze and reck,
    And the sun like a ball of brass,
We topped a hill and we crossed a creek,
“And there,” said Jim, “is the place we seek.
    You can tell by the broken glasss.”

There was never gleam of a roof in sight,
    No paddock nor yard to see;
Just a reedy pool in a grassy bight,
A fence that straggled to left and right,
    And the shade of a friendly tree.

In piles and scattered on either side,
    Lay dozens of dead marines,
Cast there by men who were forced to ride
Where the ways are lone and the runs are wide,
    And far from their Madelines.

For the Gate Hotel was an old bush gate
    That stood on the winding track,
Where, riding early or riding late,
Hard rovers halted to lubricate
    And lighten the outward pack.

No bar was there, and no barman toiled
    The glittering pile to swell;
Men brought their own in the jar and flask,
Though old-time teamsters oft tapped a cask,
    To refresh at the Gate Hotel.

They tarried long or a little while,
    Perhaps in the dead of night,
And talked or slept with a happy smile,
With a fire on the glassy pile,
    And a horse astray in the bight.

Then with a jest or a roaring song,
    Or a peppery yarn to tell,
They left their dead where the dead belong,
And took the road of the gipsy throng
    Away from the Gate Hotel.

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