Preamble
I dedicate my poem to those early shearers who carried their swags - many dying far off the beaten track in company of their only friend the "Min-Min" Light.
To my staunch shearing mates of the sixties - meeting each year in the heat of summer, in sheds far west of Quilpie!
To the men and women of Dick Duggan's shearing team and the good times we had around Hay, Booligal and Ivanhoe areas throughout the eighties and early nineties- and to my Eternal Friend - Henry Lawson.
THE SHEARERS
1.
I am the one who tramped upon feet, all swollen, bloodied and sore -
Laying at night while the 'Phantom lights,' would dance me towards death's door.
When the 'Min-Mins' tempting final flicker, shot off with the light of day -
Skin burnt black with a swag on my back, once again I would make my way.
2.
Out through Mulga in red sand soil and the Cypress and Sandalwood -
Through Paperbark trees and Gidgee scrub, with an ache in my heart I've stood.
To trudge once more as the year before in the blistering Western sun -
Cut by the sand in the Wilga wind, as I made for the big sheep run.
3.
From the Lachlan swamps to the Darling -- heading north to the Warrego -
By dried up holes in the Paroo -- and the red-brown Bulloo's flow.
Through the dog-fence out on the Wilson-- with the Gidgee smell in the air -
The Cooper, Barcoo and Thompson -- all know that I have been there.
4.
At Dalgonally, towards the gulf, on the far north Queensland plain -
For years in the Carrandotta dust and we never once saw the rain.
From Katandra down to Tolliness, then back up to Dagworth station -
I travelled and tramped and shore the sheep, for the wool to make this nation.
5.
I camped on river banks, licked my wounds, after cut-out sprees in the town-
We've died in scrub from a raging thirst, after we'd been lambed down.
The parasites of shanty-keepers, practiced their treachery well-
They would drug your drink and take your cheque, you'd wake in a blazing hell.
6.
They took the cheques they claim we'd spent, we'd swoon from the poisoned rum-
Not knowing where we were going to, or from where we had just come.
Picked clean by crows, nobody knows, where we died 'cept the 'Min-Min' lights-
Who dance around to a silent sound in the whispering Wilga nights.
7.
At Ulamontha - Mt Margaret, those sheds on the hot-red ground-
In the heatwave of that savage drought, how your heart would pump and pound.
Like Muscat-wine, the rivers joined up and flooded a hundred miles wide-
We were picked off the roof of Adavale pub, the day that a shed mate died.
8.
I've lain in sandfly infested huts, mosquitoes biting all night-
Blown back inside by the raging wind, to sweat 'till the morning light.
Sheets turned red with the running sweat the smothering dust inside-
Then up to the shed, though you felt half dead and the skills of your trade you plied.
9.
From Julia Creek to Barcaldine, to Charleville, Broken-Hill-
Cunnamulla, Bourke, back to Windorah, we worked with an iron will.
The staunchest hearts have stuck together, through isolation and pain-
And never would tread on another man, in order to make any gain.
10.
On foot, on bicycle, horse and cart, on horseback, wagon and car-
Millions of miles through the 'Great Outback,' we have travelled on dirt and tar.
Cycled from Adelaide to Innaminka, 'till our dried-out joints would rust-
The Birdsville-Track up to Boulia town, then we disappeared with the dust.
11.
The strikes we held against squatters and scabs, through many a bitter fight-
Were for our pride and our dignity and our just and common right.
For living conditions a civilized life, not for more money or greed-
But a decent bed for our aching backs, a simple but vital need.
12.
Round the Tree of Knowledge at Barcaldine, our blood it has stained the ground-
You forget who began the labor cause, as you sit there safe and sound.
In your well paid jobs inside Trades Hall, you play the political game-
You watched, as they brought us to our knees, you as well are the ones to blame.
13.
You Politicians who sold us out, I know all your names quite well -
Australia's pride was forever smashed, as you let us be damned to hell.
Inviting them in to destroy our rights, from over the Tasman water-
Disgrace to the race, how can you face, a wife, a son, or a daughter.
14.
I fished the Barcoo with mates of old and the water danced in the night -
From shadows and trees reflected there, given life by the flames and light.
We'd grill our catfish and yellow-belly and hush at the night-birds cry -
Spilling our souls by the burning coals, to the mates you would never deny.
15.
There's many a mateship made this way, lost souls who have come together -
Bonded tight in the banks firelight and stuck like glue to leather.
Nobody knows how far we've roamed, nor for us, the meaning of life -
We will drink our rum, till our time has come, to depart this earthly strife.
16.
We cherish the gay and pleasant time, spent out in many a shed -
And that is what keeps us roaming still and that's for our mates who are dead.
They may have destroyed our industry, but they'll never destroy our creed -
Dignity, justice and truthfulness, is the code of the shearing breed.
17.
As moneygrub sips his claret, on his desk a list of the dead -
We are not out to seek revenge, we travel and move on ahead.
The spirit of those who died of thirst, on many an outback station -
Replaces the links in the chain of men, who slaved, to make this nation.
© Roderick Williams 1999.