The Veteran Shearer, Strafed (1926)
(By H. McE.)
Tis true I am no Bobby Burns( Nor yet a Thomas Moore ;
I'm just an old time shearer,
From the Plains of Warryure. I'm crawling on towards eighty,
I've passed the allotted span,
By honest toil I've earned my bread
since I became a man. I've been a big gun shearer,
And always claimed the rate
the "cobbler" never bothered me,
It bothered much my mate. I have mostly shorn on every station,
From the Smokey to Mundarra ;
Was ringer at Bygongolong,
And second at Bochara. Have sheared for "Austin" on the plain,
His sheep they took the scone ;
I always took a good fleece off,
But left a better on. The station tucker took the cake,
The cook he was a bore ;
I grumbled on account of that,
But now I grumble more. When shearing time was over
I pulled the squatter's leg,
And went in search of country,
But was careful not to peg. The ruling wage was three times five,
It forced my spirits down,
When mates at work received so much
And I a paltry crown. The station hours were long and dreary,
But now they're not so many,
I then had money in my kip,
But now I've not got any. I slaved and toiled and grumbled,
Can assure you 'twas no fun ;
Now I'm strafed I take the pension
What has the Union done ? I cursed the capitalist, the squatter,
The bally Union too ;
Now on the State I'm dependent
For my blankey pension screw. Called on the skipper of Pirralea,
Of course, 'twas only a gag ;
Declared I'd heard he'd sheep to shear,
As well as a few to dag. Could tell by the twinkle in his eye,
And the way in which lie spoke,
That he knew I was stranded on "the rocks"
(I admit I was stony broke). Says he "For the sake of Bonny Doon,
And the love of Christmas cheer,
Put this quid in your kip, but recollect
Don't swamp the lot in beer." I never smoodge to the squatter now,
You bet I never will,
While I'm In receipt of a pension dole
And can pay my grocer's bill. Instead to the Union lords I bow,
But In fairness must allow,
On their charity I'm not dependent
For my bread and butter now. I still can shear a good round tally,
Though less than in days of yore.
But somehow the staple now left on
Seems longer than before. Hoist out the life line, Jock,
Haste to the rescue, Mick ;
My barque lies stranded on the rocks,
Throw out the life line quick; I never took a cobber down,
Nor in trouble left a mate;
Will the Union come to rescue
Now I'm a pauper on the State. Notes From the South Australian Newspaper The Border Watch 5 Jan 1926 p. 49. Shearing took its toll and this song explores the life of an 80 year old shearer in 1926 just as the Great Depression was looming. He doesn't like the work any more, or the poor pay, the food dished up, the boss with his token one quid offer and his lofty remarks about not spending it on beer. The Union the State pension come in for scepticism too !