Van Dieman's Land

Come all you gallant poachers 
What ramble free from care,
And walk out on the moonlit night 
With your dogs, your guns, your snare.

The harmless hare and pheasant
You have at your command,
Not thinking of your last career
Upon Van Dieman's Land.

The very day we landed
Upon that fatal shore,
The settlers 'round us gathered:
Some forty score or more.

They herded us like cattle,
And roped us out of hand,
And they yoked us to the plow, me boys,
To plow Van Dieman's Land.

'Twas poor Jock Brown frae Glasgow,
Will Guthrie, and Monroe.
They were three daring poachers,
The country well did know.

The Keeper caught them hunting,
With all their guns in hand.
They were fourteen years transported
Unto Van Dieman's Land.

Although the poor of Scotland
Do labor and do toil,
They've robbed us of every blessing,
And the produce of our toil.

Your proud, imperious landlords,
If you break their commands,
They will send you on a British hulk,
To work Van Dieman's Land.

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