Van Dieman's Land

Come all you gallant poachers, That ramble void of care, That walk out on a moonlight night With your dog, your gun and snare. The harmless hare and pheasant You have at your command, Not thinkin' of your last career Upon Van Dieman's land. Twas poor Jock Brown frae Glesca, Will Guthrie and Munro, We were four daring poachers, The country well did know; By the keepers of the land, my boys, One night we were trepanned, And for fourteen years transported Unto Van Dieman's land. There came a lass frae sweet Dundee, Bess Logan was her name, And she was given sentence For playing of the game; The captain bought her freedom And married her out of hand, And she gave us all good usage Going to Van Dieman's land.

The very day we landed Upon that fateful shore, The planters came round us, Some forty score or more; They ranked us off like horses And sold us out of hand, And yoked us to the plough, brave boys, To plough Van Dieman's Land. God bless our wives and families, Likewise that happy shore, That isle of sweet contentment Which we shall see no more; As for the wretched females, See them we seldom can, There are fourteen men to every woman In Van Dieman's Land. Oh, if I had a thousand pounds All laid out in my hand, I'd give it all for liberty If that I could command; Once more to Ireland I'd return, And be a happy man, And bid adieu to poaching And to Van Dieman's Land.

Although the poor of Scotland Do labour and do toil, They're robbed of every blessing And produce of the soil; Your proud, imperious landlords, If you break their commands, They'll send you on the British hulks To plough Van Dieman's land.