Shearing in the Bar

Duke Tritton



My shearing days are over, though I never was a gun
I could always count my twenty at the end of every run
I used the old Trade Union shears, and the blades were always full
As I drove 'em to the knockers, and I clipped away the wool
I shore at Goorianawa and didn't get the sack
From Breeza out to Compadore, I always could go back
And though I am a truthful man, I find when in a bar
My tallies seem to double, but I never call for tar

Shearing on the western plains where the fleece is full of sand
And the clover burr and corkscrew grass, is the place to try your hand
For the sheep are tall and wiry where they feed on the Mitchell grass
And every second one of them is close to the cobbler class
And a pen chock full of cobblers is a shearers dream of hell
So loud and lurid are their words when they catch one on the bell
But when we're pouring down the grog, you'll have no call for tar
For a shearer never cuts 'em, when shearing in a bar

At Louth I caught the bell sheep, a wrinkled, tough wooled brute
Who never stopped his kicking till I tossed him down the chute
My wrist was aching badly, but I fought him all the way
Couldn't afford to miss a blow, I must earn my pound a day
So when I'd take a strip of skin, I'd hide it with my knee
Turn the sheep around a bit where the right bower couldn't see
Then try and catch the rousie's eye and softly whisper "tar"
But it never seems to happen when I'm shearing in the bar

I shore away the belly wool and trimmed the crutch and hocks
Opened up along the neck while the rousie swept the locks
Then smartly swung the sheep around and dumped him on his rear
Two blows to clip away the wig - I also took an ear
Then down around the shoulder and the blades were open wide
As I drove 'em on the long blow and down the whipping side
And when the fleece fell on the board, he was nearly black with tar
But this is never mentioned when I'm shearing in a bar

Now when the seasons ended and my grandsons all come back
In their buggies and their sulkies -I was always on the track
They come and take me into town to fill me up with beer
And I sit on a corner stool and listen to them shear
There's not a bit of difference - it must make the angels weep
To hear a mob of shearers in a barroom shearing sheep
For the sheep go rattling down the race with never a call for tar
For a shearer never cuts 'em when he's shearing in a bar

Then memories come a crowding and they wipe away the years
And my hand begins to tighten and I seem to feel the shears
I want to tell them of the sheds, the sheds where I have shorn
Full fifty years and sometimes more, before these boys were born
I want to speak of yarragin, Dunlop or Wingadee
But the beer has started working and I'm wobbling at the knees
So I'd better not start shearing, I'd be bound to call for tar
Then be treated as a blackleg when I'm shearing in a bar


Often recited as a poem.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of shearers by Kerry and Company, held in the Powerhouse Museum collection

The Irishman's Goldmine

Traditional


'Twas a long time ago, just how long I don't know,
Since I first saw the land of the gumtree.
I was young, I was bold, I was looking for gold,
I was gay as the bloom of the plum-tree.

So it was pleasing to me when I happened to see
An Italian named Paddy O'Higgins
For by him I was told, if I want to find gold,
I must hump my swag up to the diggings.

So I bid him good-day and I went on my way
With my heart twice as light as a feather
And I whistle and sing till the gumtrees they ring
And I don't give a damn for the weather.

So I walks me all day till I gets me that way
That I cannot stand up without sitting
For the weight of my pack puts a kink in my back
That I cannot get out without splitting

I was ready to cry when I happened to spy
A red shirt with a big man inside it
When my tale him I told, and I spoke about gold
He said, "Irish, you're sitting beside it!"

"See that big yellow lump, beside the black stump -
If you want to find gold, I 'd advise you
Dig it up, and I bet you won't ever forget
For what you'll fin there will surprise you.

So I bid him good-day and he goes on his way,
And that hump, I just felt I could hug it
For my heart was so big as I started to dig
And expected to find one big nugget

I can see myself now, with the sweat on my brow
As off that big hump I then flung me,
For those great soldier ants, they climbed up my pants
And like ten thousand deevils they stung me

How they climbed in and out, picking little bits out
Like goats that were turned into clover
How I wished I was home, never more would I roam,
How I cursed the gold over and over

How they stung and they hurt as I pulled off my shirt
How I cursed that damned Paddy O'Higgins!
How I wished that red shirt as I rolled in the dirt
Had been buried alive in the diggings

Now, I remember one day that I heard the priest say
That gold was the root of all evil
It was true what he told, for I went to find gold
And dug up the roots of the deevil.

Another form Folk Songs of Australia, edited by John Meredith and Hugh Anderson, collected from Duke Tritton.

The illustration to this post is a photograph of a giant ants nest in outback Australia. Digging is not recommended.

The Great Northern Line

Words: Unknown
Tune: Trad ('Musselburgh Fair')



My love he is a teamster, a handsome man is he,
Red shirt, white moleskin trousers and hat of cabbage-tree;
He drives a team of bullocks, and whether it's wet or fine,
You'll hear his whip a-cracking on the Great Northern Line.


CHORUS:
Watch him, pipe him, twig him how he goes,
With his little team of bullocks he cuts no dirty shows;
He's one of the flash young carriers that on the road do shine,
With his little team of bullocks on the Great Northern Line.

And when he swings the greenhide, he raises skin and hair,
His bullocks all have shrivelled horns, for Lordy, he can swear!
But I will always love him, that splendid man of mine,
With his little team of bullocks on the Great Northern Line.

When he bogged at Mundowie and the bullocks took the yoke,
They strained with bellies on the ground until the bar chain broke,
But he fixed it up with fencing wire and brought wood from Bundamine,
With his little team of bullocks on the Great Northern Line.

When he comes into Tamworth you will hear the ladies sigh,
And parents guard their daughters for he has a roving eye;
But he signals with his bullock whip as he comes through the pine,
With his little team of bullocks on the Great Northern Line.



From Singabout, Volume 4, Number 4, 1962. A variant of the Knickerbocker Line, sung by Duke Tritton and Sally Sloane. Chloe and Jason Roweth have the following notes:

H.P. 'Duke' Tritton (1886 - 1965) sang 'The Great Northern Line' for collector John Meredith, who included the song in his book "Folk Songs of Australia Volume 1". Duke had originally learnt the song while fencing in the Warrumbungles, from Jack Large, who came from around Mudgee area in NSW..

The photograph is by Kerry and Co and shows a wheat wagon at Narromine railway station in New South Wales. From the Sydney Powerhouse collection.