Poor Ned, you're better off dead
|
At least you'll get some peace of mind
|
You're out on the track
|
They're right on your back
|
Boy they're ¡®gonna hang you high
|
|
Eighteen hundred and seventy eight
|
Was the year I remember so well
|
They put my father in an early grave
|
Slung my mother in gaol
|
Now I don't know what's right or wrong
|
But they hung Christ on nails
|
Six kids at home and two still on the breast
|
They wouldn't even give her bail
|
|
Poor Ned, you're better off dead
|
At least you'll get some peace of mind
|
You're out on the track
|
They're right on your back
|
Boy, they're ¡®gonna hang you high
|
|
You know I wrote a letter
|
'Bout Stringy-Bark Creek
|
So they would understand
|
That I might be a bushranger
|
But I'm not a murdering man
|
I didn't want to shoot Kennedy
|
Or that copper Lonnigan
|
He alone could have saved his life
|
By throwing down his gun
|
|
Poor Ned, you're better off dead
|
At least you'll get some peace of mind
|
You're out on the track
|
They're right on your back
|
Boy, they're ¡®gonna hang you high
|
|
You know they took Ned Kelly
|
And they hung him in the Melbourne gaol
|
He fought so very bravely
|
Dressed in iron mail
|
And no man single-handed
|
Can hope to break the bars
|
It's a thousand like Ned Kelly
|
Who'll hoist the flag of stars
|
|
Poor Ned, you're better off dead
|
At least you'll get some peace of mind
|
You're out on the track
|
They're right on your back
|
Boy, they're ¡®gonna hang you high
|
|
-----------------
|
Poor Ned
|
| Redgum |
