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“The ladiesare 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

With his thumb in the next man’s back;

And Bogan says to his pen-mate: “Twig

The style of the last un, Jack.”

Jack Moonlight gives her a careless glance—

Then he catches his breath with pain—

His strong hand shakes and the sunbeams 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 he knew or hoped or feared

Were hard for his mates to guess.

Jack Moonlight, wiping his broad, white brow,

Explains, with a doleful smile:

“A stitch in the side,” and “I’m 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.