The track that led to Carmody's is choked and overgrown, <br />The suckers of the stringybark have made the place their own; <br />The mountain rains have cut the track that once we used to know <br />When first we rode to Carmody's, a score of years ago. <br /> <br />The shearing shed at Carmody's was slab and stringybark, <br />The press was just a lever beam, invented in the Ark; <br />But Mrs Carmody was cook -- and shearers' hearts would glow <br />With praise of grub at Carmody's, a score of years ago. <br /> <br />At shearing time no penners-up would curse their fate and weep, <br />For Fragrant Fred -- the billy-goat -- was trained to lead the sheep; <br />And racing down the rattling chutes the bleating mob would go <br />Behind their horned man from Cook's, a score of years ago. <br /> <br />An owner of the olden time, his patriarchal shed <br />Was innocent of all machines or gadgets overhead: <br />And pieces, locks and super-fleece together used to go <br />To fill the bales at Carmody's, a score of years ago. <br /> <br />A ringer from the western sheds, whose fame was wide and deep, <br />Was asked to take a vacant pen and shear a thousand sheep. <br />"Of course, we've only got the blades!" "Well, what I want to know: <br />Why don't you get a bloke to take it off 'em with a hoe?"<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shearing-with-a-hoe/
