The Boss's Boots

The Shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the shoots;     The shearers squint along the board to catch the Bosss boots;     They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,     But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware.     The rouser has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout!     And sling em in, and rip em through, and get the bell-sheep out ;     And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots,     But pink em nice and pretty when you see the Bosss boots.     The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do,     And wore, until the shed cut out, one side-spring and one shoe;     And though he changed his pants at times, some worn-out and some neat,     No tiger there could possibly mistake the Bosss feet.     The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men,     And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again;     And tigers might have heard the boss ere any harm was done,     For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one.     But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too,     And limping round the shed he found the Bosss cast-off shoe.     He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will,     And never dreamed of Bosss boots, much less of Bogan Bill.     Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs,     Just keep away from headin em, and keep away from pubs,     And keep away from handicaps, for so your sugar scoots,     And you may own a station yet and wear the Bosss boots.     And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair:     The Boss has got a rat to-day: hes buckin everywhere,     Hes trainin for a bike, I think, the way he comes an scoots,     Hes like a bloomin cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.     Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat ;     He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit;     He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot,     He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot.     He thought that hed be fined all right, he couldnt turn the yoe;     The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldnt go;     And Bogan swore amenfully, beneath his breath he swore,     And he was never known to pink so prettily before.     And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his minds eye could trace,     The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Bosss face;     He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few,     He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe.     But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat,     He fancied there was something wrong about the Bosss feet:     The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry,     And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogans eye,     Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt,     Youd have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt,     For twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look),     And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook.     And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout     And Bogan laid his Wolseley down and knocked that rouser out;     He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot,     Ill learn the fool, said Bogan Bill, to flash the Bosss boot!     The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots,     And gives his men the office when they miss the Bosss boots.     They have no time to straighten up, theyre too well-bred to stare,     But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware.     The rouser has no soul to lose, its blarst the rouseabout!     And rip em through and yell for tar and get the bell-sheep out,     And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,,     But pink em nice and pretty when you see the Bosss boots.