Billy Of Queensland

Queensland, he heads his letters, thats all:     The date, and the month, and the year in brief;     He often sends me a cheerful scrawl,     With an undertone of ancient grief.     The first seems familiar, but might have changed,     As often the writing of wanderers will;     He seems all over the world to have ranged,     And he signs himself William, or Billy, or Bill.     He might have been an old mate of mine,     A shearer, or one of the station hands.     (There were some of em died, who drop me a line,     Signing other names, and in other hands.     There was one who carried his swag with me     On the western tracks, when the world was young,     And now he is spouting democracy     In another land with another tongue.)     He cheers me up like an old mate, quite,     And swears at times like an old mate, too;     (Perhaps he knows that I never write     Except to say that Im going to).     He says he is tired of telling lies     For a Blank he knows for a Gory Scamp,     But, I note the tone where the sunset dies     On the Outside Track or the cattle camp.     Who are you, Billy? But never mind,     Come to think of it, I forgot,     There were so many in days behind,     And all so true that it matters not.     It may be out in the Mulga scrub,     In the southern seas, or a London street,     (I hope its close to a bar or pu ,     But I have a feeling that we shall meet.