Come, all you gallant poachers
That ramble void of care,
That walk out on a moonlight night
With dog and gun and snare
Here's the hare and lofty pheasant
They stand at your command,
But you don't think of the dangers
All on Van Dieman's Land
There was poor Tom Brown from Nottingham,
Jack Williams, and poor Joe,
Three of the daring poachers
The country did well know;
One night they was trap-hunted
By a keeper hid in sand
And never thought their sport would end
All on Van Dieman's Land
Oh, the very first day we landed
All on that fatal shore,
The planters came round us
About four score and more;
They ranked us out like horses
And they sold us out of hand,
And they yoked us to the plough, brave boys,
To plough Van Dieman's Land.
Oh, the wretched huts we live in
Are built from clots and clay
With rotten straw for bedding
We dare not to say nay;
As for the wretched females,
See them we seldom can;
There are twenty men for every woman
All on Van Dieman's Land
One night, all in my slumbers,
I had a pleasant dream;
I dreamed I was with my dear wife
Down by (?) stream
With the children's prattling voice
Around me they did stand;
I awoke, quite broken-hearted,
All on 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;
Again to England I'd return
And I'd be a happy man,
And I'd bid adieu to poaching
And to Van Dieman's Land
La la la la
La la la la
La la la la la la