Across the Queensland border line
The mobs of cattle go;
They travel down in sun and shine
On dusty stage, and slow.
The drovers, riding slowly on
To let the cattle spread,
Will say: “Here’s one old landmark gone,
For old man Tyson’s dead.”

What tales there’ll be in every camp
By men that Tyson knew;
The swagmen, meeting on the tramp,
Will yarn the long day through,
And tell of how he passed as “Brown”,
And fooled the local men:
“But not for me–I struck the town,
And passed the message further down;
That’s T.Y.S.O.N.!”

There stands a little country town
Beyond the border line,
Where dusty roads go up and down,
And banks with pubs combine.
A stranger came to cash a cheque–
Few were the words he said–
A handkerchief about his neck,
An old hat on his head.

A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed–
“Know me? Of course you do?”
“It’s not my work,” the boss replied,
“To know such tramps as you.”
“Well, look here, Mister, don’t be flash,”
Replied the stranger then,
“I never care to make a splash,
I’m simple–but I’ve got the cash,
I’m T.Y.S.O.N.”

But in that last great drafting-yard,
Where Peter keeps the gate,
And souls of sinners find it barred,
And go to meet their fate,
There’s one who ought to enter in,
For good deeds done on earth;
Such deeds as merit ought to win,
Kind deeds of sterling worth.

Not by the strait and narrow gate,
Reserved for wealthy men,
But through the big gate, opened wide,
The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed,
Will travel through–and then
Old Peter’ll say: “We pass him through;
There’s many a thing he used to do,
Good-hearted things that no one knew;
That’s T.Y.S.O.N.”

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