Эндрю Бартон Патерсон (Andrew Barton Paterson)

The Passing of Gundagai

”I’ll introduce a friend!” he said, 
”And if you’ve got a vacant pen 
You’d better take him in the shed 
And start him shearing straight ahead; 
He’s one of these here quiet men. 
”He never strikes -- that ain’t his game; 
No matter what the others try 
He goes on shearing just the same. 
I never rightly knew his name -- 
We always call him ’Gundagai!’” 

Our flashest shearer then had gone 
To train a racehorse for a race; 
And, while his sporting fit was on 
He couldn’t be relied upon, 
So Gundagai shore in his place. 

Alas for man’s veracity! 
For reputations false and true! 
This Gundagai turned out to be 
For strife and all-round villainy 
The very worst I ever knew! 

He started racing Jack Devine, 
And grumbled when I made him stop. 
The pace he showed was extra fine, 
But all those pure-bred ewes of mine 
Were bleeding like a butcher’s shop. 

He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed, 
From roof to rafter, floor to shelf: 
As for my mongrel ewes, he said, 
I ought to get a razor-blade 
And shave the blooming things myself. 

On Sundays he controlled a ”school”, 
And played ”two-up” the livelong day; 
And many a young confiding fool 
He shore of his financial wool; 
And when he lost he would not pay. 

He organised a shearers’ race, 
And ”touched” me to provide the prize. 
His pack-horse showed surprising pace 
And won hands down -- he was The Ace, 
A well-known racehorse in disguise. 

Next day the bruiser of the shed 
Displayed an opal-tinted eye, 
With large contusions on his head, 
He smiled a sickly smile, and said 
He’s ”had a cut at Gundagai!” 

But, just as we were getting full 
Of Gundagai and all his ways, 
A telgram for ”Henry Bull” 
Arrived. Said he, ”That’s me -- all wool! 
Let’s see what this here message says.” 

He opened it; his face grew white, 
He dropped the shears and turned away 
It ran, ”Your wife took bad last night; 
Come home at once -- no time to write, 
We fear she may not last the day.” 

He got his cheque -- I didn’t care 
To dock him for my mangled ewes; 
His store account, we called it square, 
Poor wretch! he had enough to bear, 
Confronted by such dreadful news. 

The shearers raised a little purse 
To help a mate, as shearers will. 
”To pay the doctor and the nurse. 
And, if there should be something worse, 
To pay the undertaker’s bill.” 

They wrung his hand in sympathy, 
He rode away without a word, 
His head hung down in misery . . . 
A wandering hawker passing by 
Was told of what had just occurred. 

”Well! that’s a curious thing,” he siad, 
”I’ve known that feller all his life -- 
He’s had the loan of this here shed! 
I know his wife ain’t nearly dead, 
Because he hasn’t got a wife!” 


You should have heard the whipcord crack 
As angry shearers galloped by; 
In vain they tried to fetch him back -- 
A little dust along the track 
Was all they saw of ”Gundagai”.

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