The Outback Shearing Shed
Thereís movement at the station for itís time to earn their keep
And all the station hands were ready for their chore,
The musterers had penned up the first big mob of sheep,
The shearers too were ready for whatever lay in store..
Itís a busy time in early Spring when shearing time is nigh,
The station dogs are ready too, at this time every year,
The boss is looking upwards hoping for a clear blue sky,
For heavy rain brings great disdain & remains a constant fear.
The bell is rung, the shearers start for a long days work ahead,
Each one hoping for a ton as they survey the waiting flock,
The waiting strain that each one felt immediately now has fled,
As they shear away the belly wool and trim the crutch and hocks.
In unison theyíre shearing now , the handpiece opens up the wool,
Up the neck, then round the shoulder, the soft wool falling free,
Each shearer showing fervent skill with the hand piece running full,
As they slip into the long blow with a great show of energy.
The ringer has his head in front as he goes down the whipping side,
Eager to show why heís the best as he shoves the old ewe down the race,
The picker up picks up the fleece and by his expert hands that guide,
Spreads the fleece with perfect skill as most usually is the case.
The cry goes out for wool away as the other fleeces hit the floor,
Each shearer glad the seasonís on and all strive to make a tidy tally,
Theyíre cross-bred ewes and good to shear a fact they canít ignore,
Great sheep to build a good total up and no one will dilly- dally.
The dogs are barking in the pens, as they strive to keep them full,
For the men who do the penning up, then they draft another mob,
For the musterers as they bring them in, most with their bellyís full,
To keep the whole show running smoothly as each one knows his job.
The fleeces on the table spread, are skirted, rolled and classed,
Then placed in their appropriate bins which number half a score ,
With an empty wool bail in the press all know the waiting time is past,
With the bossís son and his Jackaroo mate ready for their chore.
Shearing goes on for many weeks with an occasional call for tar,
The weatherís kind, dry itís been but now storm clouds gather overhead,
But the final sheep goes down the race & shearers head for the local bar
And slowly a normal life returns to that outback shearing shed.