Trad. Adapted from several versions by Greg Champion

“Oh hark! The dogs are barking, I can no longer stay
The men have all gone mustering, I heard the publican say
And I must be off in the morning, love, before the sun does shine
To meet the contract shearers on the banks of the Condamine.”

“Oh Willie, dearest Willie, don’t leave me here to mourn
Don’t make me curse and rue the day that ever I was born
For parting with you Willie is like parting with me life
So stay and be a selector, love, and I will be your wife.”

“Oh Nancy, dearest Nancy, you know that I must go
Old Hallerand is expecting me, his shearing for to do
But while I’m on the bogs, me love, I’ll think of you with pride
And our shears they will go freely when I’m on the whippin’ side.”

“Oh I’ll cut off my yellow hair and go along with you
I’ll dress myself in men’s attire and be a shearer too
I’ll cook and count your tally, love while, ringer, you will shine?
And I’ll wash your greasy moleskins on the banks of the Condamine.”

“Oh Nancy, dearest Nancy, you know that can’t be so
The boss has given order, love, no woman shall do so
And your delicate constitution’s not equal unto mine
To eat the ramstack mutton on the banks of the Condamine.

But when the shearing’s over, love, I’ll make you me wife
I’ll take up a selection and I’ll settle down for life
And when the day’s work’s over, love, and the evening’s clear and fine
I’ll tell of them sandy cobblers on the banks of the Condamine.”