Collected Poetry by Andrew Barton Paterson

O west of all that a man holds dear, on the edge of the Kingdom Come, Where carriage is far too high for beer, and the pubs keep only rum, On the sunburnt ways of the Outer Back, on the plains of the darkening scrub, I have followed the wandering teamster's track, and it always led to a pub.

There's always in man some gift to show, some power he can command, And mine is the Gift that I always know when a pub is close at hand; I can pick them out on the London streets, though most of their pubs are queer, Such solid-looking and swell retreats, with never a sign of beer.