Next day the bruiser of the shed
Displayed an opal-tinted eye,
With large contusions on his head.
He smiled a sickly smile, and said
He'd `had a cut at "Gundagai"!'
But just as we were getting full
Of `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 care
To 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 purse
To 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 by
Was told of what had just occurred.
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