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The Shepherds’ Dance

Edward S. Sorenson

We’ve ridden over saltbush hills;
    We’ve crossed the greying plain,
Where stinging sand the hot wind spills
    On creeks athirst for rain;
We’ve urged along the woolly mob,
    Where only patience wins;
And at the yard the merry job,
    The shepherds’ dance, begins.

The sheep, close-packed on dusty ground,
    Are stubborn, tired and shy;
They jib and jamb and scurry round,
    But pass the gateway by.
And musterers and yardmen all,
    With capers that entrance,
With yodel, yell and blatant call,
    Join in the shepherds’ dance.

With swinging bough and rattling tin,
    The footmen run and shout;
The hoof and stockwhip swell the din
    When sheep are breaking out;
Whilst barb and kelpie, “speaking up,”
    As off they’re told to do,
Dart in and out, old dog and pup,
    And o’er the woollies, too.

Dust rises in a choking cloud,
    The voices crack and drown;
And ‘neath the thick pervading shroud
    The white backs turn to brown.
The dogs are coughing, and anon
    Grow weary of the din;
But still the dizzy jazz goes on—
    Till some old ewe leads in.

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