Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam As the engine moved ahead, With a measured beat by the slum and street Of the busy town we fled, By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, With the rush of the western gale, And the pilot swayed with the pace we made As she rocked on the ringing rail. And the country children clapped their hands As the engine's echoes rang, But their elders said: 'There is work ahead When they send for the flying gang.'
Then across the miles of the saltbush plain That gleamed with the morning dew, Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain The pilot engine flew, A fiery rush in the open bush Where the grade marks seemed to fly, And the order sped on the wires ahead, The pilot _MUST_ go by. The Governor's special must stand aside, And the fast express go hang, Let your orders be that the line is free For the boys of the flying gang.
The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, And make your collie dogs speak up -- what would the buyers say In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?
The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh.
The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage -- 'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day, It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.'
The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'.