The Collection

SHEARING

Adelaide Advertiser 30 Aug 1947

A Shearing Shed In Action

By F. J. HAWLEY

John Macarthur’s bequest to Australia—the wool industry—has in its harvest a setting as picturesque as any that could he have imagined.  Today, in the north of the State, the vast flocks converging on the homestead paddocks, smaller ones being yarded amid much barking of dogs and the bleating of lambs, men arriving at the station mean that shearing is about to begin. In South Australia, the season extends from about April until November or December, depending on the locality.

The men have mostly been engaged by letter, perhaps through a stock company, or they may have applied for the job themselves. The boss is ready to receive them and sign them on. The shearer engages to shear the sheep for a stipulated price per hundred, and the station agrees to house and feed him. His keep is afterwards deducted from his cheque at a rate decided by arbitration. It may be at so much per week, but usually, it is taken as the average cost per man of the mess account.

When all the shearers have been signed on, they “draw for pens” or position on the shearing floor or “board.” This ’board” is so constructed that the shearers work between the pens of woolly sheep and those that have been shorn.  Two men are allotted to each pen of the former, but each usually has his own pen for his shorn ones.  A fast shearer likes another fast man as a “pen-mate.” as they can act as pacemakers for each other.  Scenes in the shearing shed.—

After the draw, the men may, if mutually agreeable, change pens with someone else. Usually, no one Is keen to draw the No. l pen or Exhibition Stand. This is the first one inside the door and places its holder under the eyes of the boss and any visitors who may come to the shed.

“. . . the ringer bends with legs askew.

And wishes he’d patched them pants.”

The “Boss of the Board” has a roving commission. He wanders anywhere through the shed, keeping an eye on everything. He sees that the shearers make a good job of their sheep: that they do not leave too much wool on—“sending it back to the paddocks”—or “cut into the wool”—that is, do not make second cuts and so shorten the length of staple. He may be in the “wool room” superintending the handling and baling of the fleeces.

The stage is set for the start. If it is an “early shed’ and the men are ’raw,” they often prefer to start near the end of the week, thus giving themselves a chance to recover from any initial stiffness during Saturday afternoon and Sunday.  The boss rings the bell. It may be a piece of steel suspended by a wire and struck with another piece or perhaps an old bullock bell. It may be that an old tin is used—hence the expression ‘ringing the tin.’ The shearers have been standing looking over the sheep in the pens, mentally appraising them and picking out the easy ones—open-woolled, clean-pointed and easy-cutting ones.

What a few minutes previously had been a scene of idleness and apparent laziness now becomes a hive of industry. Each shearer has his sheep on the board. He sits it down and thrusts its forelegs and head under his left arm while, with his right, he picks up his shears and takes off the belly wool. Then his hand seems to bury itself in the sheep’s brisket and come out near the animal’s ear, and the “neck is opened up.” Then down over the shoulder, along the back: the sheep is turned, and he races down the offside— “the whipping side” or the “money-making side. With the last cut, he straightens up, and the now snowy-white sheep gets to its feet and walks out the little door in the wall and into the small pen outside where, at the end of the day, the totals are taken and the sheep branded.

But in the meantime, the shed hands have been interested in this shearing of the first sheep. They have crowded down along the board t’ see how the shearers are shaping.

Keen interest is evinced in the ’first man off.” Is he last year’s “ringer”, or has some new man beaten him? It is often, though not always, a guide to who will “ring the shed”—have the biggest total at the end. After the first man has “let go his sheep/ the shed becomes a busy place for all hands, because others will be finishing very close on his heels and the wool must be kept away and the board kept clean.

Down come the “wool boys” to gather the fleeces. This is a skilled job, for they must be picked up so that when thrown on the wool table they spread it out like a dinner cloth, running it easy for the rollers to attend to them.  These men, one on each side of a large table, the top of which is made of broom handles to allow small pieces—“locks”—to fall through, pick off the short and stained wool from the edges of the fleece, then roll it into a ball. This is then placed on a table nearby, where it is attended to by the “wool classer.”

To the uninitiated, this man appears to give it no more than a cursory glance before picking it up and placing it in its appropriate bin. There are many of these bins for the various classes of wool.  Besides the fleece wool, there are also classifications of “pieces, bellies,” and “locks.” As the bins fill, the pressers begin to get busy.  Their job is to bale and, in some sheds, weigh and brand the wool. They pack it into a large wooden box, inside of which is hung a bale. Then, a heavy iron plunger is lowered and connected with a winch. After much spraining, the plunger comes down far enough, the bale is fastened, the sides of the wooden press are opened, and out rolls a “bale of wool,” weighing about 3-cwt.

The pressers’ job, usually at piecework rates, is considered a good one, though not for weaklings, as once a shed is in full swing, the work is heavy and constant.  In the meantime, work on the board has been proceeding merrily.  The wool boys are racing madly up and down, clearing the fleeces from the way of the shearers, while the “The Rouseabout’s Song,” is often broom boys are there to sweep up any locks.

This is important, for if the board is not kept clear, the shearer cannot expect to make a “tally.” any locks on the board soon give him sore feet.  All shed hands are paid a weekly wage, with an amount deducted for their keep. The “broom boys” are virtually apprentices. They start on the broom and perhaps next year may be “picking up.” A good wool picker is an asset, and he may have that job for several years. Other shed hands are “piece pickers,” whose job is to sort out the pieces torn from the fleece by the rollers. This job is usually shunned as being too monotonous.

‘ After a two hours’ run, there is a halt for 30 minutes. The shearers’ award provides for a break after two hours’ work, half an hour after the first and third runs, with an hour for midday dinner. Work begins at 7.30 am and finishes at 5.30 p.m. At the end of the first and third runs, the cook brings tea, cakes, or other eatables to the shed. During this break, the shearers have their smokes and attend to ‘ their shears, getting them ready for the next run. At midday, all adjourn to the kitchens for dinner and again after the final run for tea. Meals must be served on time, as any delays may hold up a shearer and cause trouble.  To the man in the street, these half-hour breaks seem long, but they are usually no more than is needed to complete the necessary little jobs.

The bugbear of a shearer’s life is rain. Sheep cannot be shorn wet. The wool is liable to go on fire when baled, and it is also considered unhealthy for the shearer.  If there is any doubt as to whether the sheep are wet, a vote is taken. Two sheep each are shorn as “trialers.” The “rep”—representative of the men or the union steward—comes round handing each man two tickets, marked “wet” and “dry”, respectively.  He then follows up with a tin, each shearer placing in it the ticket, which, in his opinion, expresses the condition of the sheep.  The votes are counted by the “rep”’ and the “boss of the Board,” who declares the sheep* “wet” or “dry” as the case may be. If “wet”, the boss and ‘the “rep” mutually decide when they will be tried again.  To the shed hands, however, it is a different story. As they are on a weekly wage, rain means a holiday unless the boss can find them work in the shed — usually cutting wood for the cook.

Rain on the roof, referred to as greeted with such ribald remarks as “send ‘er down Hughie.” But wet weather has a bad moral effect on the men. If it continues for any length of time, the enforced idleness breeds discontent, tempers become frayed, and sometimes a stand-up bare knuckle fight may result, giving grounds for fresh arguments as past battles are recalled and the prowess of present champions extolled.

Generally speaking, shearers do not like visitors to the sheds, particularly if there are ladies among them.. . . “the ladies’ means in a shearing shed. Don’t cut- ‘em too bad. Don’t -swear.” No matter how rough a man may appear, he usually does not like a lady to hear him “cut loose.” One of the old customs in a shed is for the first man seeing visitors approaching to warn the others. His cry of “Hawker” is heard all around, and from then until the coast is clear again “heads down and mouths shut” is the rule.  Though shearers may make big money, many tire of the work comparatively early, it takes them away from home for most of the year, and for a married man with a family, the big cheque hardly compensates for the lack of home life and the companionship of his own fireside Others stick at it until advancing years compel their retirement. It is not uncommon to find men who l have not missed a season in 50 years.

Mrs Susan Colley, aged 92, sings ‘At Each Gate The Shearer Stood’, a song later known as ‘The Lachlan Tigers’. Mrs Colley was a marvellous singer and mentions ‘Jackie Howe’, the legendary ‘gun’ shearer. Recorded by Warren Fahey, Bathurst, NSW, 1973.

Mr. Edward Gilmer sings ‘The Limejuice Tubs’, a song he learnt when shearing in the Riverina in the nineteen twenties. He did not have a name for the songs and claimed it was the only song he knew – because his shearing mate sang it ‘all the time’. Recorded by Warren Fahey, Maryborough, Qld, 1973. The term ‘limejuice tubs’ was given to mid-19th-century ships because of the daily issue of ‘limejuice’ which was used as protection against scury.

The following bush ballad is a wonderful journey through the life of an old time shearer. Duke Tritton shore in many of these sheds and is the person who carried the words of the anonymous bush song ‘Goorianawa’ into the mid-1950s.

SHEARING IN THE BAR My shearing days are over, though I never was a ‘gun’, I could always count my twenty at the end of every run; I used the old “Trade Union” shears, and the blades were bogging full, As I drove ’em to the knockers and I chopped away the wool; I shore at Goorianawa and never got the sack, From Breeza out to Comprador I always could go back, But though I am a truthful man, I find, when in a bar, That my tallies always double — but I never call for tar Now shearing on the Western Plains, where the fleece is full of sand And clover-burr and bindy-eye, is the place to try your hand: For the sheep are tall and wiry where they feed on Mitchell grass, And every second one of them is close to the ‘cobbler’ class, And a pen chock-full of cobblers is a shearer’s dream of hell, So loud and lurid are their words when they catch one on the bell; But when we’re pouring down the grog, you’ll hear no call for tar, For a shearer never cuts them — when he’s shearing in a bar At Louth I got the bell-sheep, a wrinkled tough-woolled brute Who never stopped his kicking till I tossed him down the chute; Though my wrist; was aching badly, I fought him all the way; I couldn’t afford to miss a blow, I muse earn my pound a day, So when I took a strip of skin, I’d hide it with my knee, Turn the sheep around a bit, where the right- bower couldn’t see, Then try and catch the rousie’s eye and softly whisper “Tar” But it never seems to happen when I’m shearing in a bar! I shore away the belly wool, and trimmed the crutch and hocks, Then opened up along the neck while the broom swept the locks, Turn deftly swung the sheep around and dumped him on his rear, Two blows to clip away the wig (I also took an ear) Then down around the shoulder and the blades were opened wide As I drove them on the long blow and down the whipping side, And when I tossed him down the chute, he was nearly black with tar, But this is never mentioned — when I’m shearing in a bar! Now when the season’s ended and my grandsons all come back In their Vanguards and their Holdens (I was always on the track’) They come and take me into town to fill me up with beer, And I sit on a corner stool and listen to them shear; There’s not a bit of difference – it must make the angels weep To hear a mob of shearers in a bar-room shearing sheep The sheep go rattling down the chute and there’s never a call for tar, For they still don’t seem to cut them — when they’re shearing in a bar! Then memories come crowding and they roll away the years, And my hand begins to tighten and I seem to feel the shears; I want to tell them of the sheds, the sheds where I have shorn Full fifty years, or maybe more, before these boys were born; I want to Speak of Yarragreen, Dunlop or Wingadee, But the beer has started working and I’m wobbling at the knee, So I’d better not start shearing — I’d be bound to call for tar, Then be looked on as a blackleg — when I’m shearing in a bar! SOURCE: Written by Duke Tritton and quoted in his book Time Means Tucker.

Goorianawa

Duke Tritton sings ‘Gooriannawa’. John Meredith Collection NLA.

GORRIANAWA This fine song details the journey of an itinerant shearer of the nineteenth century. It has references to some of the major sheds including Goorianawa. The reference to ‘toby’ doing his work has always puzzled me until, recently, I discovered it was another reference to the custom of ‘raddling’ the sheep’s back. This was where the squatter landlord could ‘paint’ the shorn sheep’s back signifying it had been badly shorn and therefore the shearer would not receive payment. A ‘toby’ was a reference to the raddle brush. I’ve been many years a shearer and I fancied I could shear, I’ve shore for Rouse of Guntawang and always missed the spear; I’ve shore for Nicholas Bayly, and I declare to you That on his pure Merinos, I could always struggle through. But it’s O my, I never saw before The way we had to knuckle down at Goorianawa. I’ve been shearing down the Bogan as far as Dandaloo, For good old Reid of Tabratong I’ve often cut a few. Haddon Rig and Quambone, and even Wingadee; I could close my shears a six o’clock with a quiet century. I’ve shore for Bob McMaster down on the Rockedgiel Creek And I could always dish him up with thirty score a week. I’ve shore at Terramungamine, and on the Talbraga And I ran McDermott for the cobbler when we shore at Buckingbar I’ve been shearing on the Goulburn side, and down at Douglas Park, Where every day ’twas ÒWool Away!Ó and ‘toby’ did his work. I’ve shore for General Stewart whose tomb is on The Mount; And the sprees I’ve had with Scrammy Jack are more than I can count. I’ve been shearing at Eugowra – I’ll never forget the name, Where Gardiner robbed the escort, which from the Lachlan came. I’ve shore for Bob Fitzgerald down at the Dabee Rocks, McPhillamy of Charlton, and your Mister Henry Cox. But that was in the good old days – you might have heard them say How Skillycorn from Bathurst rode to Sydney in a day. Now I’m broken mouthed and my shearing’s at an end, And although they call me Whalebone, I was never known to bend. I’ve shorn in every woolshed from the Barwon to the sea, But I got speared at Goorianawa before I’d barbered three. For by the living Joseph I never saw before Such sheep as made us knuckle down at Goorianawa. But it’s spare me flamin’ days! I never saw before, the way we had to knuckle down at Goorianawa. NOTE: a version of this song has been recorded on ‘A Panorama Of Bush Songs’.

OFF TO THE SHEARING This song is typical of several turn-of-the-century bush songs in as much as it localises the story bringing in the name of the station cook. A sure recipe for a laugh. It also has racist overtones by today’s standard where the Aboriginal woman is referred to as a gin and a replacement for a real woman. I doubt if, at the time, it was seen as racist since it was commonplace. If anything it was extremely insensitive. The shearing time has come again, the men on bike horse Are trekking over hill & plain and down the watercourse They swarm from city town & bush, like bees they settle down While I myself must make a push, for life is dull in town Chorus So off to the shearing I’ll go I’ll go So off to the shearing I’ll go There’s money in wool, of town life I’m full So off to the shearing I’ll go A shearer leads a roving life, he’s happy & he’s free He’s just as independent as a wild dog ought to be He dearly loves a pretty girl and in that there is no sin But if a white one fails him, well, he’ll fasten to a gin So off to the shearing I’ll go I’ll go So off to the shearing I’ll go The girls frown on me a gin case I’ll be when off to the shearing I’ll go We’re shearing at Malaraway, the engine throws apace The tally board shows plain as day, the Q gun can race The bins are full the pressers they can’t stop to have a chat The cook is babbling night & day, his slushy’s bogged in fat Away from the shearing I’ll go I’ll go Away from the shearing I’ll go Ben Rickards you bet will poison us yet So away from the shearing I’ll go SOURCE: MSS/Mitchell Papers of W H L Morfew Nov 1911. Handwritten memoir

The Australian Pastoralists’ Review

This newspaper was published on behalf of farm owners and operators and, understandably, expressed opposition to Unionism. It provides an alternative perspective to the usual shed songs.

Shearing’s Over

March 1899

AFU Mss File.

Oh, when the shearing’s over,
We will live in clover,
And then, and then – and then

We’ll live like gentlemen.

With a note: “This was the chorus of a song I heard in one of the sheds on the river, and now that the shearing is actually over I am trying to discover where the life a gentleman comes in.”
Sept 1893

Description of a concert at a shearing shed

From The Barrier Weekly Post
1898

Mr McCallum, the manager of Balaclava Station, whilst listening to some shearers singing in the shed about a fortnight ago, thought that there was sufficient talent to give a very respectable entertainment; and, being a gentleman of action, he at once suggested a concert in aid of the Catholic Orphanage. The shearers immediately agreed and the following Saturday the shed was crowded. The entertainment took the form of the usual minstrel and variety show.

PROGRAM.

• A Soldier and His man
• Comic Medley
• Pretty Bidd
• He Hadn’t Been Used To Luxuries
• Parody on A Boy’s Best Friend Is His Mother
• The Miner’s dream of Home
• A Magic Paper Act
• A Clog Dance
• A Farce: The Theatrical Agent
• A Dutch broken accent recitation
• Accordion music.

The Australian Star

Oct 20 1877 issue

I have been singing a song known as ‘The Station Cook’ for over twenty-five years and, looking through a South Australian weekly newspaper, discovered the original including the name of the composer P J McGovery. The only other time this song has been collected is an inclusion in the Percy Jones/Burl Ives collection and subsequently included in the Stewart & Keesing edition of Old Bush Songs

THE SHEARER’S HARDSHIPS Oh dear, I feel so queer, I don’t know what to do The thought of leaving Fowler’s Bay, it breaks my heart in two. If I only meet that slushy, I’ll make him rue the day, That he destroyed my constitution, at that station – Fowler’s Bay Chorus: Oh dear, I feel so queer, I don’t know what to do The thought of leaving Fowler’s Bay, it breaks my heart in two. Our cook he is a baker and confectioner by trade And many a batch of sour bread and brownie he has made He turns out in the morning and gives us plenty of stewed tea So don’t forget when shearing’s done to pay the cook his fees Oh, you ought to see his plum duffs, doughboys and meat pies I swear by long Maloney it would open sheaers’ eyes He says, “take your time good fellows, and stares up with a glance I will dish you up much better if you give me but the chance Won’t I have some news to tell my friends in Adelaide? How much I did improve in health while in Fowler’s Bay I staid; Our cook is so kind, and sweet, and obliging to us all, That every time I look at him he reminds me of St Paul Spoken: Now, gentlemen when I say St Paul, I beg to be excused. I don’t wish to distinguish that inferior individual as a representative of that good saint to whom we are all taught to believe in according to Scripture. No, gentlemen shearers and brother bushmen, I am only comparing him to that Boolcoomatta blackfellow, who assumes the name of St Paul owing to his religious style of corroboree, but a more tender-hearted fellow than our insignificant cook. So it’s Chorus: Oh, dear I feel so queer etc AIR: Knickerbocker Line

SHEARER’S DITTY Oh when the shearing is over We will all live in clover And then, and then, and then, We’ll all live like gentlemen Quoted as a chorus of a song doing the shearing shed rounds that year. Australasian Pastoral, Review – 1893

Vote for the Cook

Click Go The Shears is perhaps the most widely-known shearing song. It was popularised by the American singer Burl Ives who recorded a version collected and probably arranged by Dr Percy Jones, and appearing in the Burl Ives Folio of Australian Folksongs (1953), though Jones had published the song in Twentieth Century, vol. 1, no. 1, 1946. The best-known tune for this song is said to be based on one called ‘Ring the Bell, Watchman’, composed by the American Henry Clay Work in 1865, who also composed ‘My Grandfather’s Clock’. Other versions of ‘Click Go the Shears’ use different tunes.

As with many of the shearing songs this one is full of life and colour, weaving a story around the activities and antagonisms on the ‘board’, the floor area where the sheep are shorn. The ‘Colonial Experience’ man is a reference to a usually young man sent from England to the colonies to get some colonial experience before returning home to take a role in the family or corporate business. They rarely got their hands dirty, as observed in this song.

As extraordinary as it sounds the original version of Click Go the Shears was discovered in 2012 by Mark Gregory, a Sydney folklorist, who located the song as contributed to a New South Wales newspaper.

It was signed ‘C. C.’
Eynesbury, Nov. 20, 1891.

Oh, down at the catching pen an old shearer stands, Grasping his shears in his long bony hands ; Fixed is his gaze on a bare belled ewe, Saying ” If I can only get her, won’t I make the ringer go.” Click goes his shears; click, click, click. Wide are the blows, and his hand is moving quick, The ringer looks round, for he lost it by a blow, And he curses that old shearer with the bare belled ewe. At the end of the board, in a cane bottomed chair, The boss remains seated with his eyes everywhere ; He marks well each fleece as it comes to the screen, And he watches where it comes from if not taken off clean. The “colonial experience” is there of course. With his silver buckled leggings, he’s just off his horse ; With the air of a connoiseur he walks up the floor ; And he whistles that sweet melody, “I am a perfect cure.” “So master new chum, you may now begin, Muster number seven paddock, bring the sheep all in ; Leave none behind you, whatever you do, And then we’ll say you’r fit to be a Jackeroo.” The tar boy is there, awaiting all demands, With his black tarry stick, in his black tarry hands. He sees an old ewe, with a cut upon the back, He hears what he supposes is–” Tar here, Jack.” “Tar on the back, Jack; Tar, boy, tar.” Tar from the middle to both ends of the board. Jack jumps around, for he has no time to sleep, And tars the shearer’s backs as well as the sheep. So now the shearing’s over, each man has got his cheque, The hut is as dull as the dullest old wreck ; Where was many a noise and bustle only a few hours before, Now you can hear it plainly if a pin fall on the floor. The shearers now are scattered many miles and far ; Some in other sheds perhaps, singing out for “tar.” Down at the bar, there the old shearer stands, Grasping his glass in his long bony hands. Saying “Come on, landlord, come on, come ! I’m shouting for all hands, what’s yours–mine’s a rum ;” He chucks down his cheque, which is collared in a crack, And the landlord with a pen writes no mercy on the back ! His eyes they were fixed on a green painted keg, Saying ” I will lower your contents, before I move a peg.” His eyes are on the keg, and are now lowering fast ; He works hard, he dies hard, and goes to heaven at last. Here is a collected version for comparison.

CLICK GO THE SHEARS Out on the board the old shearer stands, Grasping his shears in his thin bony hand, Fixed is his gaze on a bare-bellied yeo Glory if he gets her won’t he make the ringer go. Click go the shears, boys, click, click, click, Wide is his blow and his hands move quick, The ringer looks around and is beaten by a blow, And curses the old snagger with the bare-bellied yeo. In the middle of the floor in his cane-bottomed chair, Sits the boss of the board with his eyes everywhere; Notes well each fleece as it comes to the screen, Paying strict attention that ifs taken off clean. The tar boy is there and awaiting in demand, With his blackened tar pot in his tarry hand, Sees one old sheep with a cut upon its back; Here is what he’s waiting for – it’s “Tar here Jack!” The Colonial Experience man, he is there of course, With his shiny leggings on, just off his horse. He gazes all around like a real connoisseur, Scented soap and brilliantine, smelling like a whore. Shearing is all over and we’ve all got our cheques, Roll up your swags, boys, we’re off on the tracks, The first pub we come to it’s there we’ll have a spree, And everyone that comes along, it’s “Come and drink with me!” Down by the bar the old shearer stands, Grasping his glass in his thin bony hand, Fixed is his gaze on a green painted keg, Glory he’ll get down on it ‘ere he stirs a leg. There we leave him standing, shouting for all hands, While all around him every shouter stands, His eyes are on the keg, which now is lowering fast, He works hard, he drinks hard, and goes to hell at last. From ‘Swagman’ Jack Pobar, Toowoomba, Qld., collected by Warren Fahey, 1973. John Meredith collected a similar song under the title ‘Click, Click, That’s How the Shears Go’ from Jack Luscombe, Ryde NSW, 1953, published in Meredith & Anderson Folk Songs of Australia.