| Eighteen hundred and eighty five
|
| Is a year i remember so well
|
| When they drove old brad into an early grave
|
| And sent my mother to jail
|
| Now i don’t know what’s right or wrong
|
| But they hung christ on nails
|
| But with six kids at home and two still on her breast
|
| They wouldn’t even give her bail
|
| Oh ned, you’re better off dead
|
| You get no peace of mind
|
| A track’s a trail
|
| And they’re hot on your tail
|
| Before they’re gonna hang you high
|
| I did write a letter
|
| And i sealed it with my hand
|
| Tried to tell about stringy bog creek
|
| And tried to make them understand
|
| Oh, that i didn’t wanna kill kennedy
|
| Or cause his blood to run
|
| Well he alone could have saved his life
|
| By throwing down his gun
|
| Well i’d rather die like donahue
|
| That bush-ranger so brave
|
| Than be taken by the government
|
| And forced to walk in chains
|
| Well i’d rather fight with all my might
|
| While i have eyes to see
|
| Well i’d rather die ten thousand times
|
| Than hang from a gallow’s tree. |