Andrew Barton Paterson

Shearing with a Hoe

The track that led to Carmody’s is choked and overgrown, 
The suckers of the stringybark have made the place their own; 
The mountain rains have cut the track that once we used to know 
When first we rode to Carmody’s, a score of years ago. 

The shearing shed at Carmody’s was slab and stringybark, 
The press was just a lever beam, invented in the Ark; 
But Mrs Carmody was cook -- and shearers’ hearts would glow 
With praise of grub at Carmody’s, a score of years ago. 

At shearing time no penners-up would curse their fate and weep, 
For Fragrant Fred -- the billy-goat -- was trained to lead the sheep; 
And racing down the rattling chutes the bleating mob would go 
Behind their horned man from Cook’s, a score of years ago. 

An owner of the olden time, his patriarchal shed 
Was innocent of all machines or gadgets overhead: 
And pieces, locks and super-fleece together used to go 
To fill the bales at Carmody’s, a score of years ago. 

A ringer from the western sheds, whose fame was wide and deep, 
Was asked to take a vacant pen and shear a thousand sheep. 
”Of course, we’ve only got the blades!” ”Well, what I want to know: 
Why don’t you get a bloke to take it off ’em with a hoe?”