The Passing of Gundagai
‘I’ll introdooce a friend!’ he said,And if you’ve got a vacant penYou’d better take him in the shedAnd start him shearing straight ahead,He’s one of these here quiet men.
‘He never strikes—that ain’t his game;No matter what the others tryHE goes on shearing just the same.I never rightly knew his name—We always call him “Gundagai”!’
Our flashest shearer then had goneTo train a racehorse for a race,And while his sporting fit was onHe couldn’t be relied upon,So ‘Gundagai’ shore in his place.
Alas for man’s veracity!For reputations false and true!This ‘Gundagai’ turned out to be,For strife and all-round villainy,The very worst I ever knew!
He started racing Jack Devine,And grumbled when I made him stop.The pace he showed was extra fine,But all those pure-bred ewes of mineWere bleeding like a butcher’s shop.
He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed,From roof to rafter, floor to shelf;As for my mongrel ewes, he said,I ought to get a razor bladeAnd shave the blooming things myself.
On Sundays he controlled a ‘school’,And played ‘two-up’ the livelong day;And many a young confiding foolHe shore of his financial wool;And when he lost he would not pay.
He organised a shearers’ race,And ‘touched’ me to provide the prize.His packhorse showed surprising paceAnd won hands down—he was The Ace,A well-known racehorse in disguise.
Next day the bruiser of the shedDisplayed an opal-tinted eye,With large contusions on his head.He smiled a sickly smile, and saidHe’d ‘had a cut at “Gundagai”!’
But just as we were getting fullOf ‘Gundagai’ and all his ways,A telegram for ‘Henry Bull’Arrived. Said he, ‘That’s me—all wool!Let’s see what this here message says.’
He opened it, his face grew white,He dropped the shears and turned away.It ran, ‘Your wife took bad last night;Come home at once—no time to write,We fear she may not last the day.’
He got his cheque—I didn’t careTo dock him for my mangled ewes;His store account—we ‘called it square’.Poor wretch! he had enough to bear,Confronted by such dreadful news.
The shearers raised a little purseTo help a mate, as shearers will,‘To pay the doctor and the nurse,And if there should be something worse—To pay the undertaker’s bill.’
They wrung his hand in sympathy,He rode away without a word,His head hung down in misery.A wandering hawker passing byWas told of what had just occurred.
‘Well! that’s a curious thing,’ he said,‘I’ve known that feller all his life—He’s had the loan of this here shed!I know his wife ain’t nearly dead,Because he HASN’T GOT A WIFE!’
. . . . .
You should have heard the whipcord crackAs angry shearers galloped by,In vain they tried to fetch him back.A little dust along the trackWas all they saw of ‘Gundagai’.