Now some shearing I have done, and some prizes I have won,
Through my knuckling down so close on the skin,
But I'd rather tomahawk every day than shear a flock,
For that's the only way I make some tin.
CHORUS
I am just about to cut out for the Darling.
To turn a hundred out I know the plan;
Give me sufficient cash, and you'll see me make a splash,
For I'm Tomahawking Fred, the ladies' man.
Put me on a shearing floor, and it's there I'm game to bet
That I'd give to any ringer ten sheep start;
When on the whipping side away from them I slide,
Just like a bullet or a dart.
Of me you might have read, for I'm Tomahawking Fred,
My shearing laurels are known both near and far;
I'm the don of Riverine, 'midst the shearers cut a shine
And our tar-boys say I never call for tar.
Wire in and go ahead, for I'm Tomahawking Fred;
In a shearing shed, my lads, I cut a shine;
There is Roberts and Jack Gunn, shearing laurels they have won,
But my tally's never under ninety-nine.
