Out on the board the old shearer stands,
Grasping his shears in his long, bony hands,
Fixed is his gaze on a bare-bellied 'joe',
Glory, if he gets her, won't he make the ringer go.
Click go the shears boys, click, click, click,
Wide is his blow and his hands move quick,
The ringer looks around and is beaten by a blow,
And curses the old snagger with the bare-bellied 'joe'.
In the middle of the floor in his cane-bottomed chair
Is the boss of the board, with eyes everywhere;
Notes well eack fleece as it comes to the screen,
paying strict attention if it's taken off clean.
The colonial-experience man, he is there, of course,
With his shiny leggin's, just got off his horse,
Casting round his eye like a real connoisseur,
Whistling the old tune, 'I'm the perfect lure'.
Now Mister Newchum for to begin,
In number seven paddock bring all the sheep in;
Don't leave none behind, whatever you may do,
And then you'll be fit for a jackeroo.
The tar boy is there, awaiting in demand,
With his blackened tar pot, and his tarry hand;
Sees one old sheep with a cut upon her back,
Hears what he's been waiting for, 'Tar here, Jack'.
Shearing is all over and we've all got our cheques,
Roll up your swags for we're off on the tracks;
The first pub we come to, it's there we'll have a spree,
And everyone that comes along it's 'Come and drink with me'.
Down by the bar the old shearer stands,
Grasping his glass in his thin, bony hands:
Fixed is his gaze on a green-painted keg,
Glory, he'll get down on it, ere he stirs a peg.
There we leave him standing, shouting for all hands,
Whilst all around him all the shouters stands:
His eyes are on the cask, which is now lowering fast,
He works hard and drinks hard and goes to hell at last.