the barefoot bard Poet Rhyme

Shearing Sheep

Riding out on horseback it's a must to take the dog
To muster every single sheep recorded on a log
Round them up and bring them in
Shearing of the sheep, soon it will begin
A dog to work within the shed is always kept on hand
as well to muster up the mobs still out on the land

Breeds of sheep awaiting to be shorn
corriedale, romney marsh and a wrinkly old merino
When these sheep are clipped they must be really dry
otherwise wet wool will start a wild inferno

The shearing shed a place of so much joy
many fond memories as a younger boy
Jute made bales are filled with many a warm shorn fleece,
ideal for an after school short nap, aroma arising from the lanolin grease

Three hundred sheep are shorn within a day
two shearers working side by side, fill the shearing bay
The fastest shearer, he is known as the gun
Achieves the highest tally, every single run

The roustabout picks up the fleece, it's placed upon a table 
which he then deftly spreads
These men are always found 
in all the shearing sheds
The wool is then classed as coarse medium or fine 
the farmers special skill, a talent by design

Now and then the shearers take a well earned smoko break
To drink some steaming sugary tea and eat some chocolate cake
The roustabout then fills with sheep, the little catching pen
The shearers are removing fleece as they start up once again

Backs are bending over sheep, for days so very long
The shearers have built muscles that need to be so strong
The shearers love to hear some yarns, which are always shared
Often of the farmers plight and how he might have fared
The shearers names, they are known as
Rupert, Grub and a bloke who is Sandy
Once a year at shearing time
their skills are highly valued, very handy

The unshorn penned up woolly sheep 
are often heard to bleat
while standing and awaiting 
the annual shearing treat

And when the sheep, finally it is shorn,
pushed down a chute, their wool it's now all gone
they look so very skinny, so cold and so forlorn
Now penned up below the shed
awaiting for a man to tally up the count
For a shearers income. 
it soon begins to mount

Shearing is now over
it's time to press the bales
Load the semi trailer truck 
for delivery to the auction sales
Where the bidding will decide 
what will be the farmers take
His yearly income
the only money he will make

A pound for a pound of wool 
in the year of nineteen fifty four
The highest bid for many years 
by far the highest score

Now twenty years have passed 
since a visit to the shearing shed
Still there an epitaph written by my father
in blue crayon on a wooden wall
These are the very words I read:
nineteen fifty six big wet
nineteen fifty eight big dry
nineteen fifty nine still moaning
My fathers sense of humour was also very wry

And even though the farm was sold 
on at least two occasions
Found fathers old steel stencil 
hanging on some nails
Identifying his wool classing number 
applied to the exterior of roughly, 
per year, thirty odd wool bales

For many years no sheep have
 grazed upon this farm
Cattle need no shearing
for me, the shearing's full of charm


One pound equals Aud $2.00
One pound weight Kilograms 2.2

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