Here you will find the Poem When the Ladies Come to the Shearing Shed of poet Henry Lawson
`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 shearing-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 them 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 scorn the use Of a childish word like `damn,? Would give a pound that his tongue were loose As he tackles a lively lamb. Swift thoughts of homes in the coastal towns? Or rivers and waving grass? And a weight on our hearts that we cannot 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 shearer?s 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?? But he leans on the beam awhile, 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 the best, With hearts of a larger growth; But they hide those hearts with a brutal jest, And the pain with a reckless oath. Though the 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.