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Lyrics for Shearing In The Bar by Unknown:
| | | Artist: | Unknown |
| | Album: | Unknown | | Track: | Shearing In The Bar | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 151 | | | | Lyrics: | SHEARING IN THE BAR
(Duke Tritton)
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 always
full
As I drove 'em to the knockers, and I clipped
away the wool
I shore at Goorianawa and didn't get the sack
From Breeza out to Compadore,
I always could go back
And though I am a truthful man, I find when in a bar
My tallies
seem to double, but I never call for tar
Shearing on the western plains where the fleece
is full of sand
And the clover burr and corkscrew grass, is the place to try your
hand
For the sheep are tall and wiry where they feed on the Mitchell
grass
And
every second one of them is close to the cobbler class
And a pen chock full of cobblers is a
shearers 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 have no call for tar
For a shearer never
cuts 'em, when shearing in a bar
At Louth I caught the bell sheep, a wrinkled, tough
wooled brute
Who never stopped his kicking till I tossed him down the chute
My wrist was
aching badly, but I fought him all the way
Couldn't afford to miss a blow, I must earn my pound
a day
So when I'd take 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 the bar
I shore away the
belly wool and trimmed the crutch and hocks
Opened up along the neck while the rousie swept the
locks
Then smartly 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 open
wide
As I drove 'em on the long blow and down the whipping side
And when the fleece fell
on the board, he was nearly black with
tar
But this is never mentioned when I'm
shearing in a bar
Now when the seasons ended and my grandsons all come back
In their
buggies and their sulkies -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 barroom shearing
sheep
For the sheep go rattling down the race with never a call for tar
For a shearer
never cuts 'em when he's shearing in a bar
Then memories come a crowding and they wipe
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 and sometimes more, before
these boys were born
I want to speak of yarragin, Dunlop or Wingadee
But the beer has
started working and I'm wobbling at the knees
So I'd better not start shearing, I'd be bound to
call for tar
Then be treated as a blackleg when I'm shearing in a bar
@Australia
@work @sheep @brag
sung by Martyn Windom-Read
filename[ SHEARBAR
play.exe
SHEARBAR
SF
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