The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, <br />There's five-and-thirty shearers here a-shearing for the loot, <br />So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along -- <br />The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong -- <br />And make your collie dogs speak up; what would the buyers say <br />In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh? <br />The man that "rung" the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, <br />That stripling from the Cooma-side can teach him how to shear. <br />They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, <br />And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; <br />It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, <br />They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh. <br /> <br />The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, <br />He's always in a hurry; and he's always in a rage -- <br />"You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, <br />You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. <br />Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke today, <br />It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh." <br /> <br />The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, <br />They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; <br />The pressers standing by the rack are watching for the wool, <br />There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; <br />Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, <br />Another bale of golden fleece is branded "Castlereagh".<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shearing-at-castlereagh/
