The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: The "ringer" that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before, And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score, The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde. There were men from the inland stations where the skies like a furnace glow, And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow; There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games, And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland, He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand.

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