The Song of the Songless Shearer

“Back in the early days,” said the old, grey shearer, “when we used
the blades, and were all country men, and shearing was really
shearing, we used to sing at the board the whole day through. But
never a song is heard now. The shearers are mainly city men, who
talk politics; and they are all keen on getting back to the city lights
and the union meetings. We had better times in the days when we
used to sing.”

Now, my dad ’e was a shearer an’ ’e sez to me, “Look ’ere.
There’s sheep upon the run, me son; there’s sheep we ’ave to shear.”
My dad ’e was a shearer, an’ a country man as well.
’E sez to me, “If they ain’t shore the country goes to ’ell.”

My dad ’e was a country man (I think I told you that).
A man who knoo Australia where the sky-line’s pretty flat.
’E never looked for spires an’ things for cuttin’ out the sky,
’E ’ad no vain desires an’ things, the same as you an’ I.

My dad ’e took the broader view, an’ shore with dinkum shears,
An’, oh, good Lord! down at the board — if any man ’ad ears —
’E’d ’ear ’em singin’, singin’ there while they ripped off the fleece.
An’ me? Well I’m a shearer, but we’ve lost them days o’ peace.
For I lives down in the city; an’ I knows the city’s streets;
I ’ave to be on tap, yeh know, wot time the Union meets.

My father was a shearer, an’ ’e knoo sheep thro’ an’ thro’.
’E never yearned for city lights, the same as me an’ you.
My father was a country man; an’ I am thinkin’ now
My father picked the best of it — ’e sang things, any’ow.

An’ when a man can’t sing at work — sing shearin’ at the board,
’E’s losin’ somethin’ all the time that workmen can’t afford.
Oh, me dad ’e was a shearer, an’ ’e was a country man.
An’ ’ere’s me now, a shearer too; but sing I never can.

Fer why? I live in cities, an’ the city’s in me blood,
An’ the Union boss ’as got me, an’ — it’s easy understud.
I goes to Union meetin’s, an’ they ’ands me all the dope.
But do I know Australia? No. I ain’t got a ’ope.

I knows the cities an’ the streets; an’ when the shearin’s due,
If you goes up or you stays down is wot the boss tells you.
Ah, me dad ’e was a shearer, an’ ’e knoo sheep thro’ an’ thro’.
But I don’t want to know ’em less they pay a man. Do you?

Yes; I’m a city shearer, an’ when I get ’ome at night —
Back ’ome from these ’ere pitcher shows, an’ p’r’aps a little tight —
I sorter gits to wonderin’ if reely, after all,
My dad weren’t on the dinkum track; an’ ain’t I took a fall —

Fer when me father shore a sheep ’e sung there at the board,
But shearers they ain’t singin’ now; for songs they can’t afford.
They’re thinkin’ of the dough they’ll get, an’ ’ow they’ll do it in.
But my dad sung to ringin’ blades, an’ never cared a pin.

An’ this is all the change I get when all is done an’ said:
If fellers cannot sing at work they might as well be dead.