Well at his gate each shearer stood as the whistle loudly blew,
With eyebrows fixed and lips compressed the tigers all bent to;
You could hear the clicking of the shears as through the wool they glide,
You see a gun already turned, he’s on the whipping side.
A lot of Lachlan tigers it’s plain to see we are
Hark to our burly ringer as he loudly calls for tar;
‘Tar here,’ calls one and quick the tar boy flies
‘Sweep those locks away,’ another loudly cries.
The scene it is a lively one and ought to be admired,
You haven’t seen a better board since Jacky Howe expired
Along the board our gaffer walks his face all in a frown
And passing by the ringer says, ‘You watch my lad, keep down.’
Well I must have those bellies off, and topknots too likewise,
My eye is quick so none of your tricks or from me you will fly,
Oh, curses on our gaffer, he’s never on our side,
To shear a decent tally boys, in vain I’ve often tried.
I have a pair of Ward and Paine’s that are both bright and new,
I’ll rig them up and I’ll let you see what I can really do!
For I’ve shorn on the Riverine where they shear ’em by the score
But such a terror as to this clip I never shore before.