This is the first time I've used the OCR facility with my scanner. I only had a vague notion about what I was doing, but it seems to have turned our readable:

THE ROUSEABOUT

CHORUS: Oh I am just a rouseabout. They reckon I'm a dag.
I'm eight stone, fly-blown, a shearer's punching bag.

I'm just a flamin' work-horse, the slave of the shearing shed,
Chasin' up and down the boards, to earn me keep and me bed.
It's 'Wool away!' and 'Jump back quick!' Oh, it's a rotten game.
I wield me broom and do me best but I'm yelled at just the same. CHORUS

There's wool along the shearing boards. There's wool in every bin,
Greasy, burry, stinking wool and it keeps on rolling in.
It flutters all around me. It's in me hair and me eyes.
If I was entered for the sheep show now, I'd win the shornies prize. CHORUS

You'd think the bloomin' shearers owned the bloomin' land,
The way they chuck their weight around and they carry on so grand.
It's 'Rousy' here', 'Lift yer feet', 'Sweep this bloody board',
I'm treated like I was a dog, and I get a dog's reward. CHORUS

Tired out, I seek me bunk and I try to get some sleep.
I twist and turn with nasty dreams of mobs of bloomin' sheep.
They nudge and whisk me blankets off. They nibble at me toes.
It's worse than what a drinker sees who's got the Jims and the Joes. CHORUS

Yes, I am just a rouseabout, and they reckon I'm a dag.
I weigh eight stone. I'm half fly-blown, a shearer's punching bag.
But I don't mind their laughter. I don't care what is said.
I reckon that the rousy is the top-hand in the shed.

FINAL CHORUS: Oh, I am just a rouseabout. They reckon I'm a dag.
I'm eight stone, fly-blown, a shearer's punching bag.
Yes, I am just a rouseabout. They reckon I'm a dag.
I'm eight stone, half-grown, fly-blown, all alone, a shearer's ... punching ... bag.

--Stewie.