The Shearing Shed

'The ladies are coming,' the super says     To the shearers sweltering there,     And 'the ladies' means in the shearing-shed:     'Don't cut 'em too bad. Don't swear.'     The ghost of a pause in the shed's rough heart,     And lower is bowed each head;     And nothing is heard, save a whispered word,     And the roar of the hearing-shed.     The tall, shy rouser has lost his wits,     And his limbs are all astray;     He leaves a fleece on the shearing-board,     And his broom in the shearer's way.     There's a curse in store for that jackaroo     As down by the wall he slants,     And the ringer bends with his legs askew     And wishes he'd patched his pants.     They are girls from the city. (Our hearts rebel     As we squint at their dainty feet.)     And they gush and say in a girly way     That 'the dear little lambs are sweet'.     And Bill, the ringer, who'd scorned the use     Of a childish word like 'damn',     Would give a pound that his tongue was loose     As he tackles a lively lamb.     Swift thoughts of towns in coastal towns,     Or rivers and waving grass,     And a weight on our hearts that we cannon define     That comes as the ladies pass.     But the rouser ventures a nervous dig     In the ribs of the next to him:     And Barcoo says to his pen-mate: 'Twig     The style of the last un, Jim."     Jim Moonlight gives her a careless glance,     Then he catches his breath with pain,     His strong hand shakes and the sunlights dance     As he bends to his work again.     But he's well disguised in a bristling beard,     Bronzed skin, and his shearers dress;     And whatever Jim Moonlight hoped or feared     Were hard for his mates to guess.     Jim Moonlight, wiping his broad, white brow,     Explains, with a doleful smile:     'A stitch in the side.' and he's all right now',     And he leans on the beam a while.     And gazes out in the blazing noon     On the clearing, brown and bare,     She has come and gone, like a breath of June,     In December's heat and glare.     The bushmen are big rough boys at heart,     With hearts of a larger growth;     But they hide those hearts with a brutal jest,     And the pain with a reckless oath.     Though Bills and Jims of the bush-bard sing     Of their life loves, lost or dead.     The love of a girl is a sacred thing     Not voiced in a shearing shed.