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Shearing Time

Edward S. Sorenson

There’s excitement at the station when the shearing gang is there,
    A scurry in the shed and in the yards;
There’s a dust-cloud in the morning and a clamor everywhere,
    At night a rowdy racket over cards.
But it sore upsets the reg’lars, who must dash from place to place,
    And who have to camp at night-time on the run
To get the flocks in early and to rush them through the race
    For the pleasure of the drummer and the gun.

They seem to move in humble style beside the shearer mob,
    Who do not care a button for the boss.
The staid old station-hands must turn to any kind of job—
    No laggard at the shearing gathers moss.
The old routine is altered, and their living ways are strange,
    Five rouseabouts have mounted to a score;
In everything about them there has come a sudden change,
    The homestead isn’t homelike any more.

The shearing is a gay time for the populace around,
    Who muster when the news has gone abroad;
They come to see the ringer on the ringer’s battleground
    And ponder o’er the tallies on the board.
But the station-hands are eager for the day the shed cuts out,
    The end of all the rushing to and fro.
They’ll see the bales departing with the woolshed rouseabout
    Right gladly, and the shearers pack and go.

‘Tis then the reg'lars, who have known the seasons on the run
    From summer unto summer pass away,
Can smoke their pipes in peace once more when daytime toil is done
    And slumber where no noisy fellows play.
‘Tis then they go to “Mother’s” for a pleasant hour or two—
    Old “Mother” at the shanty by the track,
Who looks for them at week-ends, as most shanty mothers do,
    Until the shearing gang comes jogging back.

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