|Original||Versione di Bob Hart, folksinger del Suffolk attivo nella prima metà del 900.|
Now come all you young fellers where'er you may be
Come listen a while and I'll tell you
It's many's the young man myself I have seen
More fitting to serve than to die on a string
But how odd were the judges, how cruel they have been
For to send us poor lads to Virginny
Now when we come to Virginny, that cold shameful place,
Which now I recall in my story
Our captain did stand with his whip and his cane
To bargain for us poor souls out of hand
Like horses they yoked us that had ploughed the salt main
How hard was my fate in Virginny
O England, sweet England, I fear I'll never see you more
And if I do, it's ten thousand to twenty
For me fingers they are rotting and me bones they are sore
I wonder about I'm right down to death's door
But if I can just live to see seven years' more
I will soon bid farewell to Virginny
Come all you young fellows wheresome'er you may be,
Come listen awhile to my story.
For when I was a young man, my age seventeen,
I ought to be serving Victoria, our Queen.
But those hard-hearted judges, oh, how cruel they be
To send us poor young lads to Australia.
I fell in with a damsel, she was handsome and gay,
I neglected my work more and more every day,
And to keep her like a lady, I went on the highway,
And for that I was sent to Australia.
Where the judges, they stand with their whips in their hands,
They drive us like horses to plough up the land.
You should see us poor young fellows, working in the gaol-yard,
Oh, how hard is the life in Australia.
Australia, Australia, I would ne'er see thee more,
I'm worn out with fever, cast down to Death's door,
But if I live to see, say, seven years more,
I would then bid adieu to Australia,
I would then bid adieu to Australia.