Click go the shears

Out on the board the old shearer stands,
Grasping his shears in his thin bony hands;
Fixed is his gaze on a bare-bellied yoe,
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 yoe.

In the middle of the floor, in his cane bottomed chair
Sits the boss of the board with his eyes eveywhere,
Notes well each fleece as it comes to the screen,
Paying strict attention that it's taken off clean.

The colonial experienced man, he is there of course
With his shiny leggin's on, just got off his horse,
Gazes all around him like a real connoisseur,
Scented soap, and brilliantine, and smelling like a Whore,

The tar-boy is there waiting in demand,
With his blackened tar-pot, in his tarry hand,
Spies one old sheep with a cut upon its back
Here's what he's waiting for: it's "Tar here, jack!"

Now the shearing is all over, we've all got our cheques
So roll up your swags and its off down the track,
The first pub we come to it's there we'll have a spree
And everone that comes along its "Have a drink on me".

There we leave him standing, shouting for all hands,
Whilst all around him every `shouter' stands,
His eye is on the keg which now is lowering fast,
He works hard, he drinks hard, and goes to hell at last.