Come all you gallant poachers who ramble void of care,
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Who wander out on a moonlit night with your dog, your gun and snare,
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The hare and lofty pheasant you have at your command,
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Not thinking of your long career spend on Van Dieman's land.
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Poor Thomas Brown from Nenagh town, John Murphy and Poor Joe,
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Where three determined poachers, the country well does know,
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By the keepers of the land, one night, at last they were trepanned,
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And for fourteen years transported unto Van Dieman's Land.
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The first day that we landed upon that fatal shore,
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The planters gathered around us, they might be twenty score,
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They ranked us off like horses and sold us out of hand,
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They yoked us to a plough, brave boys, to plough Van Dieman's Land.
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Often when I slumber, I have a pleasant dream,
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I 'm lying on the cold green grass down by your purling stream,
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Oh, wondering through the maid of fair with my sweetheart by the hand,
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Then I awaken broken-hearted upon Van Dieman's Land.
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Fourteen years is a long long time, that is our fatal doom,
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For nothing more the poaching got no all that so we done,
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You give up dog, gun and snare and the poaching, every man
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If you only knew the hardship upon Van Dieman's Land.
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Van Diemen's Land
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| Cara Dillon |
