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“Dags”

Edward S. Sorenson

I work and whistle on my own,
    With firm resolve and strong,
Where all the dirty wool is thrown
And all the shed’s worst smells are known,
    Dag-pickin’ all day long.

The loppies, who are meek and spry
    To shearers and the rest,
Are perky chaps when I am by,
And from my table rude they shy,
    And treat me as a jest.

The classer’s rather stiff and prim,
    Perhaps he looks and grins;
For what I class is muck to him
Compared with what the rollers trim,
    And pile up in the bins.

The ringer passes with an air
    Of pride in what he’s shorn;
And e’en the drummer, with a flair
For moccasins an’ scented hair,
    Looks down on me with scorn.

The visitors who come to see
    The shearin’ and the clip
Inspect the whole fraternity
An all their props—exceptin’ me
    An’ my old rubbish tip.

Aloof I stand from Bill an’ Bob,
    Half-walled about with bags,
The man who has the dirty job,
An’ hence to all the merry mob
    Is simply known as “Dags.”

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