The Track That Led To Carmody'S Is Choked And Overgrown, The Suckers Of The Stringybark Have Made The Place Their Own; The Mountain Rains Have Cut The Track That Once We Used To Know When First We Rode To Carmody'S, A Score Of Years Ago. The Shearing Shed At Carmody'S Was Slab And Stringybark, The Press Was Just A Lever Beam, Invented In The Ark; But Mrs Carmody Was Cook, And Shearers' Hearts Would Glow With Praise Of Grub At Carmody'S, A Score Of Years Ago. At Shearing Time No Penners-Up Would Curse Their Fate And Weep, For Fragrant Fred, The Billy-Goat, Was Trained To Lead The Sheep; And Racing Down The Rattling Chutes The Bleating Mob Would Go Behind Their Horned Man From Cook'S, A Score Of Years Ago. An Owner Of The Olden Time, His Patriarchal Shed Was Innocent Of All Machines Or Gadgets Overhead: And Pieces, Locks And Super-Fleece Together Used To Go To Fill The Bales At Carmody'S, A Score Of Years Ago. A Ringer From The Western Sheds, Whose Fame Was Wide And Deep, Was Asked To Take A Vacant Pen And Shear A Thousand Sheep. "Of Course, We've Only Got The Blades!" "Well, What I Want To Know: Why Don't You Get A Bloke To Take It Off 'Em With A Hoe?"