WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE SHEARING SHED

‘ The ladies are coming,’ the super says

To the shearers sweltering there,

And‘ the ladies’ means in the shearing shed:

‘ Don’ t cut’ em too bad. Don’ t swear.’

The ghost of a pause in the shed’ s rough heart,

And lower is bowed each head;

And nothing is heard, save a whispered word,

And the roar of the shearing-shed.

The tall, shy rouser has lost his wits,

And his limbs are all astray;

He leaves a fleece on the shearing-board,

And his broom in the shearer’ s way.

There’ s a curse in store for that jackaroo

As down by the wall he slants —

And the ringer bends with his legs askew

And wishes he’ d‘ patched them pants.’

They are girls from the city. ( Our hearts rebel

As we squint at their dainty feet. )

And they gush and say in a girly way

That‘ the dear little lambs’ are‘ sweet.’

And Bill, the ringer, who’ d scorn the use

Of a childish word like‘ damn,’

Would give a pound that his tongue were loose

As he tackles a lively lamb.

Swift thoughts of homes in the coastal towns —

Or rivers and waving grass —

And a weight on our hearts that we cannot define

That comes as the ladies pass.

But the rouser ventures a nervous dig

In the ribs of the next to him;

And Barcoo says to his pen-mate:‘ Twig

The style of the last un, Jim.’

Jim Moonlight gives her a careless glance —

Then he catches his breath with pain —

His strong hand shakes and the sunlights dance

As he bends to his work again.

But he’ s well disguised in a bristling beard,

Bronzed skin, and his shearer’ s dress;

And whatever Jim Moonlight hoped or feared

Were hard for his mates to guess.

Jim Moonlight, wiping his broad, white brow,

Explains, with a doleful smile:

‘ A stitch in the side,’ and‘ he’ s all right now’—

But he leans on the beam awhile,

And gazes out in the blazing noon

On the clearing, brown and bare —

She has come and gone, like a breath of June,

In December’ s heat and glare.

The bushmen are big rough boys at the best,

With hearts of a larger growth;

But they hide those hearts with a brutal jest,

And the pain with a reckless oath.

Though the Bills and Jims of the bush-bard sing

Of their life loves, lost or dead,

The love of a girl is a sacred thing

Not voiced in a shearing-shed.