A Stockman's Lament
When the last bale's on, and the ropes axe twitched,
And the team set into their chains;
When the leader looks in a gallant way
Out over the well-grassed plains.
With a year's monotonous work ahead,
Where the shade Is scant, and the soil is red,
And the silent land in the heat is dead,
We turn again to the changeless run;
Shearing's over, shearing's done.
They have rolled their swags, they are far and wide,
By a hundred varied ways
The shearers head for the harvest lands.
And the pleasure of easier days.
Where the fruit is ripe and the shady trees
Drop luscious gifts on their nerveless knees,
So they sit and yarn in their careless ease,
And we? We turn to the changeless run ;
Shearing's over, shearing's done.
There are girls to woo, there are wives to kiss,
There are bairns to take on the knee ;
And a thousand joys that are theirs to know,
As they plan of things to be.
As they talk ahead, and their fancies range
O'er the pleasant paths that are full of change,
Where all is new, yet where nought is strange.
And we? We turn to the changeless run;
Shearing's over, shearing's done.
We think of the dreary days to be,
In the thirst of the endless plain.
Of the sheep to drive and the wires to mend.
Ere shearing comes again.
And we feel that our life is dull and stale
With the dreariness of a twice-told tale;
And our hopes for the future almost fail
As we turn again to the changeless run;
Shearing's over, shearing's done.
--W. M. Fleming.
Notes
From the Victorian Newspaper The Kerang New Times 20 Sep 1903 p. 5.