| One Sunday morning as I went walking
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| By Brisbane waters I chanced to stray
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| I heard a prisoner his fate bewailing
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| As on the sunny river bank he lay
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| I am a native from Erin’s island
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| Transported now from my native shore
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| They tore me from my aged parents
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| And from the maiden whom I adore
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| I’ve been a prisoner at Port Macquarie
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| At Norfolk Island and Emu Plains
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| At Castle Hill and cursed Toongabbie
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| At all those settlements I’ve woked in chains
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| But of all places of condemnation
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| And penal stations of New South Wales
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| Of Moreton Bay I have found no equal
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| Excessive tyranny each day prevails
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| For three long years I was beastly treated
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| And heavy irons on my legs I wore
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| My back from flogging was lacerated
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| And often slain with my crimson gore
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| And many a man from downright starvation
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| Lies mouldering underneath the clay
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| And Captain Logan he had us mangled
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| At the triangles in Moreton Bay
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| Like the Egyptians and ancient Hebrews
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| We were oppressed under Logan’s yoke
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| Till a native black lying there in ambush
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| Did give our tyrant his mortal stroke
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| My fellow prisoners exhilarated
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| That all such monsters a death shall find
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| And when from bondage we’re liberated
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| Our former sufferings shall fade from mind |