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Pity the boy in front of me |
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He was only 16, |
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Lifted up my axe then down, |
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Split his head like a cord of wood. |
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Not for me the huon pine, |
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Not for me the ankle iron, |
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A'resting in the rope'll do me fine. |
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So they sent me down to Bellerive, |
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Strung me up to my relief, |
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I was just a petty thief |
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Of no account, no import. |
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Send my love to my sister |
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In the Female Factory, |
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Remind her of the day when we drank wine. |
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May a slant of winter light |
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Break upon my stone before the night |
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Ushers in the chill, |
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I have no sight, I have no sight. |
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But did they pave the streets of Hobart town? |
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Lop the old wood forests down? |
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For the press of King and Crown, |
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For honey? Milk and honey? |
