Had he but spar'd his Tongue and Pen,
He might have rose like other Men:
But, Power was never in his Thought:
And, Wealth he valu'd not a Groat:
But, kept the Tenor of his Mind,
To merit well of human Kind.
–Swift.
Whenever two or more Australians discuss folksongs the talk inevitably turns before long to convict songs and convict days and, before much longer, to the mysterious 'Frank the Poet'. For more than a century tradition has held him to have been the true author or composer of Moreton Bay, The Convict's Tour to Hell and other fragments of song and verse so evocative of our beginnings. Yet Frank's identity has remained a mystery. Folk tales suggested that he was an Irish Catholic convict with a pretty wit, and, of course, a gift for versifying; but no-one could be certain that such an individual convict had actually existed. He might himself have been a composite creation of folk memory.
This book, I believe, solves the puzzle. After many years of painstaking research John Meredith and Rex Whalan have run 'Frank the Poet' to earth at last. Their evidence is contained in the pages that follow. 'Frank' was indeed an Irish convict, though probably a Protestant, not a Catholic; and he personally underwent many of the experiences, including repeated floggings, which are reflected in his verses.
As time goes on interest in Australia's beginnings, and in contemporary views of them, can only increase. Frank's life and verse will be of even more concern to Australians a hundred or a thousand years hence, than they are now. The authors of this book have earned the gratitude of posterity.
RUSSEL WARD.
University of New England.
J.C. Byrne: Convict Songs
Twelve years' wanderings in the British colonies: from 1835 to 1847 Vol. 1.
It is certainly strange for a newly-arrived person in the colony to enter a road-side inn in the neighbourhood of Sydney, or even in the town itself, and hear chaunted forth by a dark-featured man, whose visage seems parched up and dry as a chip, a song, the subject of which is the sufferings, hardships, and hair-breadth escapes of the singer, whilst undergoing the sentence which brought him to the colony. These songs are constantly heard all over the colony, in second-rate places of entertainment; they are drawled out in a peculiar tone, with little attempt at air or variation, and still less at poetical ability. They are mere recitatives of the adventures, crimes, and punishments of the relators, when undergoing punishment in the coal mines, in a road-gang, or penal settlements. The appearance of a convict of the lower class, or one that has been such, is unmistakeable. A peculiarity of visage, different from all other men, is recognizable; whilst their countenances are of a dark brown hue, parched and dried up, muscles and all, as if they had been baked in one mass. In no one's hearing are these beings ashamed to indulge in their songs; it is not conceived any disgrace, and little do they care, if their masters hear details, that at times freeze the blood with horror, and shock the listener.
Notes
These words take us back 160 years or more helping us imagine we are hearing a convict singing in Sydney, 'his fate bewailing'. Are we part of an audience listing to Frank the Poet? The singer has worked outside for long periods perhaps on a road gang, or as a shepherd, or on assignment to a local land owner. Just as MacNamara did. The recitatives are of the adventures, crimes, and punishments of the relators, when undergoing punishment in the coal mines, in a road-gang, or penal settlements; Just like the subjects of MacNamara's poems and songs. There is defiance in MacNamara too descriptions of being 'beastly treated' and 'mangled at the triangle', descriptions which certainly at times freeze the blood with horror, and shock the listener. Like the singer above MacNamara showed little deference to his masters and , and his brutal treatment as convict did not make him ashamed to enumerate them in his compositions.
J.C. Byrne, London, 1848, p.187
Notes
These words take us back 160 years or more helping us imagine we are hearing a convict singing in Sydney, 'his fate bewailing'. Are we part of an audience listing to Frank the Poet? The singer has worked outside for long periods perhaps on a road gang, or as a shepherd, or on assignment to a local land owner. Just as MacNamara did. The recitatives are of the adventures, crimes, and punishments of the relators, when undergoing punishment in the coal mines, in a road-gang, or penal settlements; Just like the subjects of MacNamara's poems and songs. There is defiance in MacNamara too descriptions of being 'beastly treated' and 'mangled at the triangle', descriptions which certainly at times freeze the blood with horror, and shock the listener. Like the singer above MacNamara showed little deference to his masters and , and his brutal treatment as convict did not make him ashamed to enumerate them in his compositions.
Whitley: Some Random Reminiscences
From Some Random Reminiscences Lower Hunter River 1855-1857 by Thomas Whitley
The Australian Agricultural Company has recently found a historian of its 50 years of existence between 1824-1875, when the author, Mr Gregson, officiated as General Superintendent 1876-1905. The company is merely glanced at in these sheets principally from having employed the labor of a number of servants assigned from the government. Among them was one long remembered by his survivors in the district. Mr Holdstock, in 1857, having business occasions at Stroud, becoming detained from misarrangement and finding several hours unoccupied, sought out an “ Old Hand “ – a relic of the past – who had been a fellow-assignment with the person above referred to, ‘Frank the Poet’ known in his ‘Company’ name as Goddard; but, presumably later, as Frank Macnamara. Holdstock induced this ancient, who was wholly illiterate but possessed of good memory, to select a master-piece from his repertory of the ‘Poet’s’ productions for recitation. The ‘Tour to Hell’ became thus transcribed, and its loan conferred upon the return from Stroud. Some items of light revision, ‘Oscar for Uskett, etc.,etc., were necessary, of course, in such circumstances, and the following copy is direct in descent from that so obtained and made in my own hand. Macnamara is said to have been a lame man, dying in Sydney, about 1853.
Occasional reference to Frank the Poet is met with, indicating that other specimens are extant, but giving no clue of access to them. It is remarkable that the lapse of so many years has (added) no other to the specimen captured by Holdstock. An article touching on the composition and singing of old Bush Ballads-- of which only an undated fragment can be referred to--appeared in a Sydney Bulletin many years ago, and incidentally mentions the "Poet", thus– "At the station hut... the nasal quaver of the "Old Hand" might be heard as he vaunted the glories of some old time bushranger
Who was hunted up and down my boys,
Like an old man kangaroo
But I'll fight 'em ten to one, says he
Says Bold Jack Donohue.
Or, perhaps as he gives a doggerel reminiscence of the ill-famed island-prison denounced in Frank the Poet's scathing valediction, as
Squatters' home and prisoners' hell
Land of Sodom, fare thee well.
where
They yoke us up like horses,
All in Van Diemens Land.
see Cultural Collections, University of Newcastle's photostream
The Australian Agricultural Company has recently found a historian of its 50 years of existence between 1824-1875, when the author, Mr Gregson, officiated as General Superintendent 1876-1905. The company is merely glanced at in these sheets principally from having employed the labor of a number of servants assigned from the government. Among them was one long remembered by his survivors in the district. Mr Holdstock, in 1857, having business occasions at Stroud, becoming detained from misarrangement and finding several hours unoccupied, sought out an “ Old Hand “ – a relic of the past – who had been a fellow-assignment with the person above referred to, ‘Frank the Poet’ known in his ‘Company’ name as Goddard; but, presumably later, as Frank Macnamara. Holdstock induced this ancient, who was wholly illiterate but possessed of good memory, to select a master-piece from his repertory of the ‘Poet’s’ productions for recitation. The ‘Tour to Hell’ became thus transcribed, and its loan conferred upon the return from Stroud. Some items of light revision, ‘Oscar for Uskett, etc.,etc., were necessary, of course, in such circumstances, and the following copy is direct in descent from that so obtained and made in my own hand. Macnamara is said to have been a lame man, dying in Sydney, about 1853.
 |
| Some Random Reminiscences p.15 |
Who was hunted up and down my boys,
Like an old man kangaroo
But I'll fight 'em ten to one, says he
Says Bold Jack Donohue.
Or, perhaps as he gives a doggerel reminiscence of the ill-famed island-prison denounced in Frank the Poet's scathing valediction, as
Squatters' home and prisoners' hell
Land of Sodom, fare thee well.
where
They yoke us up like horses,
All in Van Diemens Land.
see Cultural Collections, University of Newcastle's photostream
The Cypress
No doubt the work of a 1960s folksong enthusiast rather than MacNamara. It does however illustrate a continuing tradition of writing songs about past events.
Collected by Ian Coggins from Maeve Chick, Battery Point, Tasmania, 1968.
She sailed form Hobart Town,
Three hundred and thirsty convicts were aboard
All Macquarie Harbour bound were they,
All Macquarie Harbour bound
A life in chains is sorrow for a man
Twere better he were dead,
And sooner than a soldier's mercy show,
The cruel sea will turn red, I swear,
The cruel sea will turn red.
You may plead for pity's blessed sake
But a tyrant's eye is blind
And sooner than a soldier's mercy show,
The cruel sea will turn kind,
I say, The cruel sea will turn kind.
Aboard this ship and loaded down with chains
Was a man named Brian Malone
'Twas he who said now we can take this ship
And sail her away on our own, brave boys,
And sail her away on our own. ,.
The soldiers lined the decks with guns in hand
And they were craven men,
But Brian Malone he pitched them overboard
And the convicts were free men again, at last,
The convicts were free men again.
They set their course and northerly did sail
Far from Van Diemen's Land
And swore that they never again would bow down
Beneath the tyrant's hand, no more,
Beneath the tyrant's hand.
They were lost and never seen again
But when the moonlight fails
The waves ride high and lightning splits the night
They say the Cypress sails, once more,
They say the Cypress sails,
They say the Cypress sails.
From Australian Tradition, March, 1969. 9.
The Ballad of Martin Cash
 |
| Martin Cash as drawn by Bock |
That love to hear your tuneful notes,
Remember William Wallace and
Montrose of sweet Dundee–
The great Napoleon played his part,
But by treachery was undone
Nelson, for England's glory bled
And nobly fought by sea–
And Wellington, old Erin's son,
Who Waterloo so bravely won,
When leading on his veteran troops,
Bold faced his daring foes–
But Martin Cash of matchless fame,
The bravest man that owns that name,
Is a valiant son of Erin,
Where the sprig of shamrock grows.
By treachery as it was said,
This hero to a gaol was led,
'Twas Bedford who, in Campbell Town,
Had got him seven years.
Which sent him to the settlement
In misery and discontent,
But soon he made his foes repent,
As you shall quickly hear,
He left Port Arthur's cursed soil,
Saying "No longer will I toil",
And soon he reached the Derwent's side
In spite of all his foes.
He made the settlers crouch in dread
Where'er that he showed his head;
This valiant son of Erin,
Where the sprig of shamrock grows.
It was once when near the old Woolpack
His enemies they did attack;
The number being three to one,
They thought their prize secure.
But Martin to his piece did cling,
And three of them did quickly wing,
Saying, "Down, you cowardly dogs,
Or I nail you to the floor!"
It's loud for mercy they did cry,
But no one came to their reply,
While Martin, with a smiling eye,
Stood gazing at his foes.
Then through the bush he took his way,
And called on settlers night and day,
Did our valiant son of Erin,
Where the sprig of shamrock grows.
It was on the Salt Pan Plain
He faced his enemies again,
There were Sydney blacks and horse police,
And well-trained soldiers too;
But at the time when they drew near,
Cash hailed them loudly with a cheer,
And let them have it left and right,
His colours were true blue.
Bravely did he stand his ground,
The bullets flying thick around,
And like a fearless general
He faced his firing foes.
"Surrender, Martin !" loud they cry,
"Never till the hour I die
Said this valiant son of Erin,
Where the sprig of shamrock grows.
Brave Cash, not caring for his life,
To Hobart came to see his wife,
The constables who lay in wait
Cried, "Martin is in view !"
Some cowards tried to block his way,
But one of them soon lifeless lay,
Their numbers were increasing,
And still did Cash pursue.
And in the street a man rushed out,
Who tried to stop him in his route,
But with a pistol in each hand
He clean shot off his nose.
"Surrender, Cash !" was still their cry,
"Never, till the hour I die
Said this gallant son of Erin,
Where the sprig of shamrock grows.
O'erpowered and wounded, bleeding, pale,
The Bobbies marched him off to gaol,
And when his trial was brought on
Some hundreds listened by.
And when the Judge, with panting breath
Had told him to prepare for death,
He calmly heard the sentence
With a proud, unflinching eye.
We all have hopes that we shall see
Bold Martin yet at liberty,
That shortly he will be as free
As the ocean wind that blows.
He's of a good old valiant race,
There's no one can his name disgrace,
He's a noble son of Erin,
Where the sprig of shamrock grows.
He's the bravest man that you could choose
From Sydney men or Cockatoos,
And a gallant son of Erin,
Where the sprig of shamrock grows.
Notes
From "The Adventures of Martin Cash" published in Hobart in 1870. The book was later serialised in Tasmanian newspapers. Martin Cash and Francis MacNamara had both been prisoners at Port Arthur.
In his paper 'James Lester Burke, Martin Cash and Frank the poet' in Australian Literary Studies; May 92, Vol. 15 Issue 3 Philip Butterss argues that James Lester Burke was more the author of the Martin Cash book than Cash and that Burke probably wrote the Ballad of Martin Cash rather than MacNamara. Certainly it is a much more clumsy verse than most that has been attributed to MacNamara.
"Cockatoos" was a name for someone like MacNamara, who had been a prisoner on Cockatoo Island in Sydney Harbour. A play titled "Martin Cash" was performed in Launceston in December 1900 and had a character Frank the poet. See report in the Examiner.
Bold Jack Donahoe
If you'll but listen, a sorrowful tale I'll tell,
Concerning a young hero, in action lately fell,
His name it was Jack Donahoe, of courage and renown,
He'd scorn to live in slavery or be humbled to the crown.
On the twenty-fourth of August, it be his fatal day,
As he and his companions were cruising the highway,
He was hailed by the horse-police, he stood with heart and hand,
"Come on, my lads,"cried Donahoe, "We'll fight them man for man."
Says he to his companions, "Now if you're game–
You'll see there's only three of them, our number's just the same,
We'll fight but not surrender, our freedom we'll maintain,
For today it's life and liberty, or fall upon the plain."
"Oh no," says cowardly Walmsley, "Your laws we'll not fulfil,
You'll see there's eight or ten of them advancing on yon hill.
If it comes to an engagement, you'll rue it when too late,
So turn about and come with us– we'll form a quick retreat."
"Begone you cowardly scoundrels, begone I pray from me,
For if we were united, we'd gain this victory."
"Today I'll fight with courage bold that all the world may see,
For I'd rather die in battle than be hung on a gallows tree."
Soon they commenced their firing; poor Donahoe did say,
"My curse lay on you Walmsley, for from me you've run away!"
The one played off in front of him, the other at each side,
At length he received a mortal wound and in his glory died.
The equals of Jack Donahoe, this country has never seen,
He did maintain his rights, my boys, and that right manfully,
He was chased about by hundreds, for three long years or more,
Until at length the Heavens decreed that he should roam no more.
The awful end of Donahoe, the truth to you I've told,
And hope that all good Christians will pray for his soul.
May the Holy Angels guard him, likewise our Heavenly King,
And our Saviour Dear who died for us, redeem his soul from sin.
Notes
Donohoe was reported shot in the Sydney Gazette on 4 September 1830
DEATH OF DONOHOE.
This daring marauder has at length
been met by that untimely fate which he
so long contrived to avoid. On Wednes-
day evening, at dusk, as a party of the
Mounted Police were riding through the
bush at Reiby, near Campbell Town,
they came up with three bushrangers,
one of whom was Donahoe; on being
called upon to stand, they threw away
their hats and shoes, and ran off, when
the Police fired, and killed Donahoe on
the spot, one ball entering his neck and
another his forehead. Favoured by the
dusk, the others made their escape, and
in defiance of the dreadful fate of their
comrade, that very night broke into a hut
and carried off what they wanted. The
body of Donahoe was removed to Liver-
pool, and will be brought to Sydney this
morning.
Thus is the Colony rid of one of the
most dangerous spirits that ever infested
it, and happy would it he were those of a
like disposition to take warning by his
awful fate.
Concerning a young hero, in action lately fell,
His name it was Jack Donahoe, of courage and renown,
He'd scorn to live in slavery or be humbled to the crown.
On the twenty-fourth of August, it be his fatal day,
As he and his companions were cruising the highway,
He was hailed by the horse-police, he stood with heart and hand,
"Come on, my lads,"cried Donahoe, "We'll fight them man for man."
Says he to his companions, "Now if you're game–
You'll see there's only three of them, our number's just the same,
We'll fight but not surrender, our freedom we'll maintain,
For today it's life and liberty, or fall upon the plain."
"Oh no," says cowardly Walmsley, "Your laws we'll not fulfil,
You'll see there's eight or ten of them advancing on yon hill.
If it comes to an engagement, you'll rue it when too late,
So turn about and come with us– we'll form a quick retreat."
"Begone you cowardly scoundrels, begone I pray from me,
For if we were united, we'd gain this victory."
"Today I'll fight with courage bold that all the world may see,
For I'd rather die in battle than be hung on a gallows tree."
Soon they commenced their firing; poor Donahoe did say,
"My curse lay on you Walmsley, for from me you've run away!"
The one played off in front of him, the other at each side,
At length he received a mortal wound and in his glory died.
The equals of Jack Donahoe, this country has never seen,
He did maintain his rights, my boys, and that right manfully,
He was chased about by hundreds, for three long years or more,
Until at length the Heavens decreed that he should roam no more.
The awful end of Donahoe, the truth to you I've told,
And hope that all good Christians will pray for his soul.
May the Holy Angels guard him, likewise our Heavenly King,
And our Saviour Dear who died for us, redeem his soul from sin.
Notes
Donohoe was reported shot in the Sydney Gazette on 4 September 1830
 |
| The Sydney Gazette Saturday 4 September 1830 p.2 |
DEATH OF DONOHOE.
This daring marauder has at length
been met by that untimely fate which he
so long contrived to avoid. On Wednes-
day evening, at dusk, as a party of the
Mounted Police were riding through the
bush at Reiby, near Campbell Town,
they came up with three bushrangers,
one of whom was Donahoe; on being
called upon to stand, they threw away
their hats and shoes, and ran off, when
the Police fired, and killed Donahoe on
the spot, one ball entering his neck and
another his forehead. Favoured by the
dusk, the others made their escape, and
in defiance of the dreadful fate of their
comrade, that very night broke into a hut
and carried off what they wanted. The
body of Donahoe was removed to Liver-
pool, and will be brought to Sydney this
morning.
Thus is the Colony rid of one of the
most dangerous spirits that ever infested
it, and happy would it he were those of a
like disposition to take warning by his
awful fate.
A Petition from the A.A. Co. Flocks at Peel River
In behalf of the Irish Bard
By permission of the great Esquire Hall
Being assembled here this day
Unanimously bleating all
For Him that's far away.
Our noble sires in the rich vales
Of Germany long sported
But we alas to New South Wales
By the Company were imported.
We were bourne across the Main
From Holland and from Russia
Some from Saxony, more from Spain
France, Switzerland and Prussia.
We, the prime of the Company's stock
Fat wethers, rams and ewes
None excepted, all the flock
Peel for the Poet's woes.
Oft he has charmed with his notes
The Plains of fair Killala
To him we owe our fleecy coats
Our flesh, our hides, our tallow.
He ever proved our constant friend
'Tis plain from our contrition
In his behalf therefore we send
The following petition.
For years on the Poet's lawn we've grazed
And leaped o'er many a hurdle
To you our voices all are raised
Most noble Ebsworth of Burrell.
To honour thee we never cease
With reverence most profound
How much more Sire, when you release
The Poet from underground.
Each morning when the watchful cock
Announced the approach of day
At the folds he was seen with his flock
Before Sol's glittering ray.
The lofty wood crowned hills adorned
Were seen on the Plains
The truant like negligence he scorned
Of all the neighbouring swains.
By the fair Peel's evergreen side
We feasted every day
Our wants there amply were supplied
Whilst our Bard's merry lay
Joined with the notes of the sweet thrush
With melody filled the air
Birds to him flocked from every bush
So sweet his carols were.
Our tender lambs with him would play
And in his bosom lie
To Hawks they's often fall a prey
But for his watchful eye.
He reared them with a father's care
And fed the sickly ewes
Whilst other shepherds gambling were
On cards and dominoes.
Our wily foes, the native dogs
He chased for many a mile
Saint Patrick never drove the frogs
So swift from the Western Isle.
The King of Thessaly's numerous flocks
Once Telemacus kept
And from coverts and caverns in the rocks
Bears, lions and tigers crept.
To hear the music of his lute
But our Bard's plaintive songs
Not only charmed the senseless brute
But gathered the birds in throngs.
Far from the Peel's evergreen plains
In some wild lone retreat
In bitter and heartrending strains
We'll mourn our patron's fate.
Our cries from the hills shall resound
To the extremes of the Poles
If our friend goes underground
At Newcastle to wheel coals.
Why should the poet be sent down
To toil in a coal pit
Such service best suits a clown
But not a man of wit.
We yet shall hear his merry songs
On fair Killala's plain
Kind Heaven shall avenge the wrongs
Of our much injured swain.
Notes:
Meredith and Whalan
From the Trimingham/Cameron MSS in the Mitchell Library.
Internal evidence suggests that this verse-petition was written between March 1838 and April 1839, when James Ebsworth was acting commissioner of the A. A. Co. following on the death of Col. Dumaresq.
Esquire Hall refers to Charles Hall, stock superintendant of the company from 1830, and who resided at the peel River Estate from 1834.
Killala spelled as such is a town in Ireland, but here is intended to refer to Calala Cottage, Hall's residence at the Peel River.
Ebsworth of Burrell is the above-mentioned James Ebsworth. Booral was the name given to his residence at Stroud.
By permission of the great Esquire Hall
Being assembled here this day
Unanimously bleating all
For Him that's far away.
Our noble sires in the rich vales
Of Germany long sported
But we alas to New South Wales
By the Company were imported.
We were bourne across the Main
From Holland and from Russia
Some from Saxony, more from Spain
France, Switzerland and Prussia.
We, the prime of the Company's stock
Fat wethers, rams and ewes
None excepted, all the flock
Peel for the Poet's woes.
Oft he has charmed with his notes
The Plains of fair Killala
To him we owe our fleecy coats
Our flesh, our hides, our tallow.
He ever proved our constant friend
'Tis plain from our contrition
In his behalf therefore we send
The following petition.
For years on the Poet's lawn we've grazed
And leaped o'er many a hurdle
To you our voices all are raised
Most noble Ebsworth of Burrell.
To honour thee we never cease
With reverence most profound
How much more Sire, when you release
The Poet from underground.
Each morning when the watchful cock
Announced the approach of day
At the folds he was seen with his flock
Before Sol's glittering ray.
The lofty wood crowned hills adorned
Were seen on the Plains
The truant like negligence he scorned
Of all the neighbouring swains.
By the fair Peel's evergreen side
We feasted every day
Our wants there amply were supplied
Whilst our Bard's merry lay
Joined with the notes of the sweet thrush
With melody filled the air
Birds to him flocked from every bush
So sweet his carols were.
Our tender lambs with him would play
And in his bosom lie
To Hawks they's often fall a prey
But for his watchful eye.
He reared them with a father's care
And fed the sickly ewes
Whilst other shepherds gambling were
On cards and dominoes.
Our wily foes, the native dogs
He chased for many a mile
Saint Patrick never drove the frogs
So swift from the Western Isle.
The King of Thessaly's numerous flocks
Once Telemacus kept
And from coverts and caverns in the rocks
Bears, lions and tigers crept.
To hear the music of his lute
But our Bard's plaintive songs
Not only charmed the senseless brute
But gathered the birds in throngs.
Far from the Peel's evergreen plains
In some wild lone retreat
In bitter and heartrending strains
We'll mourn our patron's fate.
Our cries from the hills shall resound
To the extremes of the Poles
If our friend goes underground
At Newcastle to wheel coals.
Why should the poet be sent down
To toil in a coal pit
Such service best suits a clown
But not a man of wit.
We yet shall hear his merry songs
On fair Killala's plain
Kind Heaven shall avenge the wrongs
Of our much injured swain.
Notes:
Meredith and Whalan
From the Trimingham/Cameron MSS in the Mitchell Library.
Internal evidence suggests that this verse-petition was written between March 1838 and April 1839, when James Ebsworth was acting commissioner of the A. A. Co. following on the death of Col. Dumaresq.
Esquire Hall refers to Charles Hall, stock superintendant of the company from 1830, and who resided at the peel River Estate from 1834.
Killala spelled as such is a town in Ireland, but here is intended to refer to Calala Cottage, Hall's residence at the Peel River.
Ebsworth of Burrell is the above-mentioned James Ebsworth. Booral was the name given to his residence at Stroud.
Jim Jones at Botany Bay
A song by Francis MacNamara ?
Oh listen for a moment lads and hear me tell my tale
How o'er the sea from England's shore I was compelled to sail
The jury says he guilty sir and the hanging judge says he
For life Jim Jones I'm sending you across the stormy sea
And take my tip before you ship to join the iron gang
Dont be too gay at Botany Bay or else you'll surely hang
Or else you'll surely hang he says and after that Jim Jones
It's high upon the gallows tree the crows will pick your bones
You'll have no chance for mischief there remember what I say
They'll flog the poaching out of you out there at Botany Bay
The waves were high upon the sea the wind blew up in gales
I'd rather have drowned in misery than come to New South Wales
The winds blew high upon the sea and the pirates came along
But the soldiers on our convict ship were full five hundred strong
They opened fire and somehow drove that pirate ship away
I'd rather joined that pirate ship than come to New South Wales
For night and day the irons clang and like poor galley slaves
We toil and moil and when we die must fill dishonoured graves
But bye and bye I'll break my chains into the bush I'll go
And join the bold bushrangers there Jack Donahoo and Co
And some dark night when everything is silent in this town
I'll kill the tyrants one by one and shoot the floggers down
I'll give the law a little shock remember what I say
They'll yet regret they sent Jim Jones in chains to Botany Bay
Notes
First published in "From Old Pioneering Days in the Sunny South, by Charles MacAlister". (Published Goulburn, NSW, 1907) This is the most defiant of the transport ballads. Russel Ward writes of the song: "Instead of an implicit acceptance of the rules of society, there is an explicit assumption that society itself is out of joint, and even a hint that in the new land society may be remoulded nearer to the heart's desire".
Although not collected in the field the song has had a remarkable new life since the 1950's, often sung where a song of defiance is called for. The song was first recorded by Ewan MacColl on a 78rpm record for the Wattle label in 1956. In Westminster Hall in London in the early 1970's A.L. Lloyd sang it to a huge audience at a rally for the release of Angela Davis the American radical.
Is Jim Jones the work of Francis MacNamara? The evidence in the song itself suggests it is at least possible ... its uncompromising defiance, its unusual construction, the absence of any moralising conclusion. The first three verses, threats in the voice of the English judge, the next three of description, defiance and retribution in the voice of the prisoner. The song is set to an Irish tune Irish Molly O, a tune MacNamara would certainly have known. The verses can certainly sound Irish when read aloud. Interesting that such a dramatic song was never discovered in the field and although it has been attributed to MacNamara, perhaps it was written by MacAlister although he does not claim it. MacNamara often put the names of his heroes (and his enemies) in his verse in this case Jack Donahoe and Jim Jones. MacNamara was arrested in 1842 with four other prisoners including John Jones and was transported for a second time to Van Diemen's Land where he would have heard convict ballads and stories, vibrant source material for the poetry of a man who regularly declaimed:
My name is Frank MacNamara
A native of Cashel, County Tipperary
Sworn to be a Tyrant's foe
And while I live I'll crow
Oh listen for a moment lads and hear me tell my tale
How o'er the sea from England's shore I was compelled to sail
The jury says he guilty sir and the hanging judge says he
For life Jim Jones I'm sending you across the stormy sea
And take my tip before you ship to join the iron gang
Dont be too gay at Botany Bay or else you'll surely hang
Or else you'll surely hang he says and after that Jim Jones
It's high upon the gallows tree the crows will pick your bones
You'll have no chance for mischief there remember what I say
They'll flog the poaching out of you out there at Botany Bay
The waves were high upon the sea the wind blew up in gales
I'd rather have drowned in misery than come to New South Wales
The winds blew high upon the sea and the pirates came along
But the soldiers on our convict ship were full five hundred strong
They opened fire and somehow drove that pirate ship away
I'd rather joined that pirate ship than come to New South Wales
For night and day the irons clang and like poor galley slaves
We toil and moil and when we die must fill dishonoured graves
But bye and bye I'll break my chains into the bush I'll go
And join the bold bushrangers there Jack Donahoo and Co
And some dark night when everything is silent in this town
I'll kill the tyrants one by one and shoot the floggers down
I'll give the law a little shock remember what I say
They'll yet regret they sent Jim Jones in chains to Botany Bay
Notes
First published in "From Old Pioneering Days in the Sunny South, by Charles MacAlister". (Published Goulburn, NSW, 1907) This is the most defiant of the transport ballads. Russel Ward writes of the song: "Instead of an implicit acceptance of the rules of society, there is an explicit assumption that society itself is out of joint, and even a hint that in the new land society may be remoulded nearer to the heart's desire".
Although not collected in the field the song has had a remarkable new life since the 1950's, often sung where a song of defiance is called for. The song was first recorded by Ewan MacColl on a 78rpm record for the Wattle label in 1956. In Westminster Hall in London in the early 1970's A.L. Lloyd sang it to a huge audience at a rally for the release of Angela Davis the American radical.
 |
| Sydney Gazette Thursday 2 June 1842 p.3 |
My name is Frank MacNamara
A native of Cashel, County Tipperary
Sworn to be a Tyrant's foe
And while I live I'll crow
Seizure of the "Cyprus Brig" in Recherche Bay
A Song by Francis MacNamara
Came all you sons of freedom, a chorus join with me,
I'll sing a song of heroes, and glorious liberty.
Some lads condemn'd from England sail'd to Van Diemen's shore.
Their country, friends and parents, perhaps never to see more.
When landed in this Colony to different masters went,
For trifling offences, to Hobart Town Gaol were sent,
A second sentence being incurr'd we were order'd for to be
Sent to Macquarie Harbour, that place of tyranny.
The hardships we'd to undergo, are matters of record,
But who believes the convict, or who regards his word?
For starv'd and flogg'd and punish'd, depriv'd of all redress,
The Bush our only refuge, with death to end distress.
Hundreds of us were shot down, for daring to be free,
Numbers caught and banished, to life-long slavery.
Brave Swallow, Watt, and Davis, were in our noble band
Determin'd at the first slant, to quit Van Diemen's Land.
March'd down in chains and guarded, on the Cyprus Brig convey'd,
The topsails being hoisted, the anchor being weighed.
The wind it blew sou sou' west and on we went straightway,
Till we found ourselves wind bound, in gloomy Recherche Bay.
Twas August eighteen twenty nine, with thirty one on board,
Lieutenant Carew left the Brig, and soon we passed the word.
The Doctor too was absent, the soldiers off their guard,
A better opportunity could never have occurred.
Confined within a dismal hole, we soon contriv'd a plan,
To capture now the "Cyprus", or perish every man,
But thirteen turn'd faint-hearted and begged to go ashore,
So eighteen boys rush'd daring, and took the Brig and store.
We first address'd the soldiers "for liberty we crave,
Give up your arms this instant, or the sea will be your grave.
By tyranny we've been oppress'd, by your Colonial laws,
But we'll bid adieu to slavery, or die in freedom's cause."
We next drove off the Skipper, who came to help his crew,
Then gave three cheers for liberty, 'twas answer'd cheerly too.
We brought the sailors from below, and rowed them to the land,
Likewise the wife and children of Carew in command.
Supplies of food and water, we gave the vanquish'd crew,
Returning good for evil, as we'd been taught to do.
We mounted guard with watch and ward, then haul'd the boat aboard
We elected William Swallow, and obeyed our Captain's word.
The morn broke bright, the wind was fair, we headed for the sea
With one cheer more to those on shore and glorious liberty.
For navigating smartly Bill Swallow was the man,
Who laid a course out neatly to take us to Japan.
Then sound your golden trumpets, play on your tuneful notes
The "Cyprus Brig" is sailing, how proudly now she floats.
May fortune help the noble lads, and keep them ever free
From Gags, and Cats, and Chains and traps, and Cruel Tyranny.
Notes
The Cyprus Brig was rebuilt by convicts in 1825 at Macquarie Harbour, the 'Gates of Hell'. The brig was seized and used for escape by other convicts in Recherche Bay, August 1829. Naturally this escape story was a favourite of Tasmanian prisoners. MacNamara would have certainly heard this story during his time in Tasmania, it has many of the hallmarks of his writing where 'record' can rhyme with 'word' (especially for an Irish voice) and the ballad shows no hint of retreat from fierce support for rebellion and condemnation of tyranny.)
Recently the historian Nick Russell discovered that the convict story of their visit to Japan in 1830 was verified by a Japanese painter of the time as shown in the image below
In his History of Tasmania (1845) John West seems to have heard at least the first line of MacNamara's ballad "Came all you sons of freedom, a chorus join with me"
West wrote:
The capture of the Cyprus in Recherche Bay, on the voyage to Macquarie Harbour, was a stiring episode in the history of transportation. It excited vast interest in Great Britain, and was dramatised at a London theatre. The prisoners, who wage war with society, regarded the event with exultation; and long after, a song, composed by a sympathising poet, was propagated by oral tradition, and sung in chorus around the fires in the interior. This version of the story made the capture a triumph of the oppressed over the oppressors. The stanzas set forth the suffering of the prisoners by the cruelty of their masters, who they daily attempted to please. It related their flight from torture to the woods, and drew but a dreary picture of the life of an outlaw. It passed through the details of conviction and embarkation, and then described the dashing seamanship of the pirates in managing the bark, once destined to carry them to that place of suffering; but which bore "bold Captain Swallow", to the wide ocean and liberty.
See Thomas Whitley notes about MacNamara
See also Cyprus Brig sighting: Sydney Gazette (1829)
Listen to Jack Davies sing the Cyprus Brig from a 1961 field recording
 |
| Thomas Whitley transcription 1891 State Library NSW |
I'll sing a song of heroes, and glorious liberty.
Some lads condemn'd from England sail'd to Van Diemen's shore.
Their country, friends and parents, perhaps never to see more.
When landed in this Colony to different masters went,
For trifling offences, to Hobart Town Gaol were sent,
A second sentence being incurr'd we were order'd for to be
Sent to Macquarie Harbour, that place of tyranny.
The hardships we'd to undergo, are matters of record,
But who believes the convict, or who regards his word?
For starv'd and flogg'd and punish'd, depriv'd of all redress,
The Bush our only refuge, with death to end distress.
Hundreds of us were shot down, for daring to be free,
Numbers caught and banished, to life-long slavery.
Brave Swallow, Watt, and Davis, were in our noble band
Determin'd at the first slant, to quit Van Diemen's Land.
March'd down in chains and guarded, on the Cyprus Brig convey'd,
The topsails being hoisted, the anchor being weighed.
The wind it blew sou sou' west and on we went straightway,
Till we found ourselves wind bound, in gloomy Recherche Bay.
Twas August eighteen twenty nine, with thirty one on board,
Lieutenant Carew left the Brig, and soon we passed the word.
The Doctor too was absent, the soldiers off their guard,
A better opportunity could never have occurred.
Confined within a dismal hole, we soon contriv'd a plan,
To capture now the "Cyprus", or perish every man,
But thirteen turn'd faint-hearted and begged to go ashore,
So eighteen boys rush'd daring, and took the Brig and store.
We first address'd the soldiers "for liberty we crave,
Give up your arms this instant, or the sea will be your grave.
By tyranny we've been oppress'd, by your Colonial laws,
But we'll bid adieu to slavery, or die in freedom's cause."
We next drove off the Skipper, who came to help his crew,
Then gave three cheers for liberty, 'twas answer'd cheerly too.
We brought the sailors from below, and rowed them to the land,
Likewise the wife and children of Carew in command.
Supplies of food and water, we gave the vanquish'd crew,
Returning good for evil, as we'd been taught to do.
We mounted guard with watch and ward, then haul'd the boat aboard
We elected William Swallow, and obeyed our Captain's word.
The morn broke bright, the wind was fair, we headed for the sea
With one cheer more to those on shore and glorious liberty.
For navigating smartly Bill Swallow was the man,
Who laid a course out neatly to take us to Japan.
Then sound your golden trumpets, play on your tuneful notes
The "Cyprus Brig" is sailing, how proudly now she floats.
May fortune help the noble lads, and keep them ever free
From Gags, and Cats, and Chains and traps, and Cruel Tyranny.
Notes
 |
| The two-masted Cyprus Brig can be seen in this fragment of Augustus Earle's 1825 "Panorama of Hobart" The brig is the second vessel to the right of the flag pole. (Dixson Galleries, State Library of NSW) |
Recently the historian Nick Russell discovered that the convict story of their visit to Japan in 1830 was verified by a Japanese painter of the time as shown in the image below
 |
Watercolour picture of a British-flagged ship that arrived off the coast of Mugi, in Shikoku, Japan, by the Samurai Hamaguchi.
Photograph: Tokushima prefectural archive
|
West wrote:
The capture of the Cyprus in Recherche Bay, on the voyage to Macquarie Harbour, was a stiring episode in the history of transportation. It excited vast interest in Great Britain, and was dramatised at a London theatre. The prisoners, who wage war with society, regarded the event with exultation; and long after, a song, composed by a sympathising poet, was propagated by oral tradition, and sung in chorus around the fires in the interior. This version of the story made the capture a triumph of the oppressed over the oppressors. The stanzas set forth the suffering of the prisoners by the cruelty of their masters, who they daily attempted to please. It related their flight from torture to the woods, and drew but a dreary picture of the life of an outlaw. It passed through the details of conviction and embarkation, and then described the dashing seamanship of the pirates in managing the bark, once destined to carry them to that place of suffering; but which bore "bold Captain Swallow", to the wide ocean and liberty.
See Thomas Whitley notes about MacNamara
See also Cyprus Brig sighting: Sydney Gazette (1829)
Listen to Jack Davies sing the Cyprus Brig from a 1961 field recording
The Convict's Arrival
or 'The Convict's Lament on the Death of Captain Logan'
A Song by Francis MacNamara (Jack Bradshaw's version)
In transit storms as I set sailing,
Like a bold mariner my coast did steer,
Sydney Harbour was my destination,
That cursed harbour at length drew near;
I then joined banquet in congratulation
On my safe arrival from the briny sea;
But alas! alas! I was mistaken
Twelve years transported to Moreton Bay.
Early one morning as I carelessly wandered,
By the Brisbane waters I chanced to stray,
I saw a prisoner sadly bewailing,
While on the sunbeaming banks he lay.
He said, I have been a prisoner at Port MacQuarie,
At Norfolk Island and Emu Plain,
At Castle Hill and cursed Towngabbie
And at all those places I've worked in chains.
But of all the places of condemnation,
In each penal station of New South Wales,
Moreton Bay I found no equal,
For excessive tyranny each day prevails.
Early in the morning as the day is dawning,
To trace from heaven the morning dew,
Up we are started at a moment's warning,
Our daily labour for to renew.
Our overseers and superintendents
All these cursed tyrants language we must obey,
Or else at the triangles our flesh is mangled,
That is our wages at Moreton Bay.
For three long years I've been beastly treated;
Heavy irons each day I wore,
My poor back from flogging has been lacerated,
And oftimes painted with crimson gore.
Like the Egyptians or ancient Hebrews,
We were sorely oppressed by Logan's yoke,
Till kind providence came to our assistance
And gave this tyrant his fatal stroke.
Yes, he was hurried from that place of bondage
Where he thought he would gain renown,
But a native black, who lay in ambush
Gave this monster his fatal wound.
Now that I've got once more to cross the ocean,
And leave this place called Moreton Bay,
Where many a man from downright starvation
Lies mouldering today beneath the clay.
Fellow prisoners be exhilarated,
And your former sufferings don't bear in mind,
For it's when from bondage you are extricated
We will leave those tyrants far, far behind.
Notes
From The Quirindi Bank Robbery by John Bradshaw (c. 1899)
MacNamara's description of the treatment of prisoners under 'Logan's yoke' is amply documented by a letter to the editor of the Sydney Monitor in 1830 the year of Captain Patrick Logan's death. See Articles on this site, including Murder of Captain Logan by the Blacks at Moreton Bay
A Song by Francis MacNamara (Jack Bradshaw's version)
In transit storms as I set sailing,
Like a bold mariner my coast did steer,
Sydney Harbour was my destination,
That cursed harbour at length drew near;
I then joined banquet in congratulation
On my safe arrival from the briny sea;
But alas! alas! I was mistaken
Twelve years transported to Moreton Bay.
Early one morning as I carelessly wandered,
By the Brisbane waters I chanced to stray,
I saw a prisoner sadly bewailing,
While on the sunbeaming banks he lay.
He said, I have been a prisoner at Port MacQuarie,
At Norfolk Island and Emu Plain,
At Castle Hill and cursed Towngabbie
And at all those places I've worked in chains.
But of all the places of condemnation,
In each penal station of New South Wales,
Moreton Bay I found no equal,
For excessive tyranny each day prevails.
Early in the morning as the day is dawning,
To trace from heaven the morning dew,
Up we are started at a moment's warning,
Our daily labour for to renew.
Our overseers and superintendents
All these cursed tyrants language we must obey,
Or else at the triangles our flesh is mangled,
That is our wages at Moreton Bay.
For three long years I've been beastly treated;
Heavy irons each day I wore,
My poor back from flogging has been lacerated,
And oftimes painted with crimson gore.
Like the Egyptians or ancient Hebrews,
We were sorely oppressed by Logan's yoke,
Till kind providence came to our assistance
And gave this tyrant his fatal stroke.
Yes, he was hurried from that place of bondage
Where he thought he would gain renown,
But a native black, who lay in ambush
Gave this monster his fatal wound.
Now that I've got once more to cross the ocean,
And leave this place called Moreton Bay,
Where many a man from downright starvation
Lies mouldering today beneath the clay.
Fellow prisoners be exhilarated,
And your former sufferings don't bear in mind,
For it's when from bondage you are extricated
We will leave those tyrants far, far behind.
Notes
From The Quirindi Bank Robbery by John Bradshaw (c. 1899)
MacNamara's description of the treatment of prisoners under 'Logan's yoke' is amply documented by a letter to the editor of the Sydney Monitor in 1830 the year of Captain Patrick Logan's death. See Articles on this site, including Murder of Captain Logan by the Blacks at Moreton Bay
A petition from the Chain Gang at Newcastle
 |
| Convict Gang Macquarie Barracks Sydney |
 |
| Courtesy State Library NSW |
A Petition from The Chain Gang at New Castle
To Capt Furlong
The superintendent praying Him to Dismiss a Scourger Named
Duffy from the Cookhouse and appoint a Man in his Room
Francis MacNamara
1st
With reverence and submission due,
Kind sir those words are sent to you,
And with them a good wish too.
Long may you reign,
And like Wellington at Waterloo
Fresh laurels gain.
2nd
Your petitioners are under thy care,
In mercy therefore hear our prayer,
Nor let us wallow in despair,
But soothe each pang,
But allow no flogger to prepare
Food for your gang.
3rd
'Tis said that by your ordination
Our late cook lost his situation,
And Duffy is in nomination
His berth to fill;
But has not got our approbation,
Nor never will.
4th
Your judgement Sire, put to good use,
Nor burthen us with foul abuse,
Full long we've drunk the dregs and juice
Of black despair,
Yet we can find another screw loose
Or two somewhere.
5th
Our jaws now daily will grow thinner.
And stomachs weak, as I'm a sinner,
For Duffy is a human skinner,
Most barbarous wretch.
Each day I'd rather have my dinner
Cooked by Jack Ketch.
6th
It matters not whether salt or fresh,
Even his touch would spoil each dish
His cooking we never can relish -
We'd rather starve.
For be assured tis human flesh
He best can carve.
7th
To any rational being I appeal,
Whether he's fit to cook a meal
For a vile caterpillar or a snail,
Or a beast of prey.
Men he has scoured in every gaol
In Botany Bay.
8th
I know the damned devils when they sit
To dine, will long for a savoury bit.
Now Duffy's just the person fit
To boil their kettles,
To send him to the Bottomless Pit
To cook their victuals.
9th
But did he even touch our meat.
A furnace our coppers wouldn't heat,
And every knife, fork, spoon and plate
Would cry out Shame,
And in the midst of our debate
Would curse thy name.
10th
Or if Saints Matthew, Mark, John and Luke,
With Moses who wrote the Pentateuch
Consented to make this flogger our cook.
I'd say 'tis foul;
If I wouldn't swear it on the Book,
Hell seize my soul.
11th
Now sir, your petitioners great and small
On bended knees before you fall;
Nor let us in vain for redress call,
Drive Duffy away,
And as in duty bound we all
Will ever pray.
'Tis needless to say the prayer was granted.
Notes
Transcribed from the Trimingham manuscript State Library NSW
The Sydney Monitor Monday 15 January 1838 p.2
http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/32158675
GOVERNMENT GAZETTE.
Friday, January 12, 1838.
Colonial Secretary's Oflce.
Sydney, 6th January, 1838.
HIS Excellency the Acting Governor has been
pleased to appoint
CAPTAIN RICHARD TASKER FURLONG,
of Her Majesty's 80th Regiment of Foot, Assistant
Engineer and Superintendent of the Ironed Gang at
Newcastle, under the provisions of the Acts of
Council 3rd William IV, No. 3, and 8th William IV,
No. 1.
By His Excellency's Command,
E. DEAS THOMSON.
The Sydney Herald Friday 8 February 1839 p.2
Birth.
At Newcastle, on the morning of the 6th instant, the lady of Captain R. T. Furlong, 80th Regiment, of a daughter,
Labouring With The Hoe
A poem by Francis MacNamara
[Tune and performance The Timbers]
Conveyed across those swelling seas
In slavery's fetters bound
Forever banished from that shore
Where love and friendship grow
That loss of freedom to deplore
And work the labouring hoe
Despised rejected and oppressed
In tattered rags I'm clad
What anguish fills my aching breast
And drives me almost mad
When I hear the settler's threatening voice
Say Arise to labour go!
Take scourging convict for your choice
Or work the labouring hoe
Growing weary from compulsive toil
Beneath the noontide sun
While drops of sweat bedew the soil
My task remains undone
I'm flogged for wilful negligence
Or the tyrant calls it so
Oh what a doleful recompense
For labouring with the hoe
Behold yon lofty woodbine hills
Where the rose in the morning shines
Those crystal brooks that do distil
And mingle with those vines
There seems to me no pleasure gained
They but augment my woe
While here an outcast doomed to live
And work the labouring hoe
You generous sons of Erin's isle
Whose heart for glory burns
Pity a wretched exile
Who his long-lost country mourns
Restore me heaven to liberty
Whilst I lie here below
Untie this clue of bondage
And release me from the hoe!
Notes
Many thanks to Jacob Habner of Stobie Sounds and The Timbers for permission to add this song to the Union Songs collection.
The song is included on an album devoted entirely to modern musical interpretations of Frank the Poet's work which is being recorded and compiled by Stobie Sounds\ in South Australia.
see also Timbers and Steel article
[Tune and performance The Timbers]
I was convicted by the laws
Of England's hostile crownConveyed across those swelling seas
In slavery's fetters bound
Forever banished from that shore
Where love and friendship grow
That loss of freedom to deplore
And work the labouring hoe
Despised rejected and oppressed
In tattered rags I'm clad
What anguish fills my aching breast
And drives me almost mad
When I hear the settler's threatening voice
Say Arise to labour go!
Take scourging convict for your choice
Or work the labouring hoe
Growing weary from compulsive toil
Beneath the noontide sun
While drops of sweat bedew the soil
My task remains undone
I'm flogged for wilful negligence
Or the tyrant calls it so
Oh what a doleful recompense
For labouring with the hoe
Behold yon lofty woodbine hills
Where the rose in the morning shines
Those crystal brooks that do distil
And mingle with those vines
There seems to me no pleasure gained
They but augment my woe
While here an outcast doomed to live
And work the labouring hoe
You generous sons of Erin's isle
Whose heart for glory burns
Pity a wretched exile
Who his long-lost country mourns
Restore me heaven to liberty
Whilst I lie here below
Untie this clue of bondage
And release me from the hoe!
Notes
Many thanks to Jacob Habner of Stobie Sounds and The Timbers for permission to add this song to the Union Songs collection.
The song is included on an album devoted entirely to modern musical interpretations of Frank the Poet's work which is being recorded and compiled by Stobie Sounds\ in South Australia.
see also Timbers and Steel article
A Lauriate
Article by "Dolphin"
Published in the Launceston Examiner 10 September 1885 under the heading "Old Time History"
Frank McNamara, the convict poet, was a clever fellow and a great favourite at Port Arthur. He was originally sent out to Sydney, and was for some time confined on board the hulk Phoenix, where, upon the occasion of some meat which was unfit for human food being given to the convicts to eat, he achieved fame by the following composition:
"Oh, bull, oh, bull, what brought you here ?
You've ranged these hills for many a year.
You've ranged these hills with sore abuse
And now you're here for poor Frank's use."
He was afterwards sent to Port Arthur, where he behaved well, and was sent north as an assigned servant, subsequently obtaining his freedom. Prior to leaving Launceston for Victoria he scraped the mud off his boots upon the wharf, and took anything but a tender farewell of the island. I believe he afterwards obtained work upon a newspaper at Geelong, but I have not heard of him since.
Notes
Published in the Launceston Examiner 10 September 1885 under the heading "Old Time History"
Frank McNamara, the convict poet, was a clever fellow and a great favourite at Port Arthur. He was originally sent out to Sydney, and was for some time confined on board the hulk Phoenix, where, upon the occasion of some meat which was unfit for human food being given to the convicts to eat, he achieved fame by the following composition:
"Oh, bull, oh, bull, what brought you here ?
You've ranged these hills for many a year.
You've ranged these hills with sore abuse
And now you're here for poor Frank's use."
He was afterwards sent to Port Arthur, where he behaved well, and was sent north as an assigned servant, subsequently obtaining his freedom. Prior to leaving Launceston for Victoria he scraped the mud off his boots upon the wharf, and took anything but a tender farewell of the island. I believe he afterwards obtained work upon a newspaper at Geelong, but I have not heard of him since.
Notes
Dolphin, a ex-convict himself, begins this column discussing shipbuilding and and cites 'the brig Cypress' built by convicts at the 'Gates of Hell' the Van Diemen's Land Macquarie Harbour penal station. Appropriately this ship was the one successfully commandeered by other convicts and sailed to China three years later. Francis MacNamara is credited with writing a memorial to this escape 'The Seizure of the Cyprus Brig in Recherche Bay'.
A Dialogue between two Hibernians in Botany Bay
First Published in the Sydney Gazette 8 February 1840
Musha welcome to Botany, Paddy my dear,
Yer the last man in Ireland, I thought of seeing here.
By my aunty Kate's side, you are my cousin jarmin.
And wid you I oft went to hear Father Mike's sarmon.
But how did this lagging of yours come to pass,
I'm inclined to think you neglected the mass
And robbed your poor soul of felicity's joys,
By joining yourself to the cursed White Boys.
The sea sickness, Darby, has made me so weak,
That I'm hardly able at present to speak.
From wearing the darbies, my limbs are grown feeble,
And all the blame lies on the Man of the People.
Cursed Daniel O'Connell the great Agitator,
Is in my opinion a double faced traitor,
From his seditious harangues had I kept away,
I ne'er should have visited Botany Bay.
But tell me Darby, do you enjoy good health :
I heard when at home you possessed immense wealth.
'Twas the common conversation each night round the hearth,
That the Governor puts all his countrymen in berths.
And they all flock round him like terrier dogs,
His first breath, like ourselves too, he drew in the bogs.
And the English assail him with vociferations,
For putting his countrymen in situations.
Places and offices of the greatest trust,
But Darby, my friend, you know it is but just,
For never was a Paddy yet born of a mother,
That would not fight till death in defence of another
So we care not for Atheist, Jew, Christian, or Turk,
So long as we're back'd by our countryman Bourke.
Musha Darby, my friend, aint the sea mighty deep,
Rather than be a sailor, I'd enlist for a sweep,
For sweeps can repose on their soft sooty pillows,
While mariners are tost up and down on the billows.
But if ever I return from cursed New South Wales,
I'll tell the ould people some wondertul tales,
Describing the elements and waves in commotion.
And the curious animals I've seen in the ocean,
How black whales and sperm in droves gathered round us.
Spouting water on our decks, sufficient to to drown us.
How sharks followed after us like peelers and swaddies.
Auxiously waiting to devour the dead bodies;
How the dolphin changes al colors when dying;
How I've seen heaps of fish in the elements flying.
Well I know they'll pitch myself to the dickens,
When I tell them about Mother Carey's fine chickens,
I'll tell the Mahers, McNamaras and McCarty's
All about iron gangs and road parties,
How famous the hulk is for chaining and gagging,
How the penal men are used, when doing their lagging ;
I'll them about delegates, cooks, mates and victuallers,
And give them a letter on Dungaree settlers.
Now Darby, since you're going to ould Ireland back,
Give my loving respects to my young brother Jack
And pay the same tribute to Shamus my brother,
The same give to my affectionate mother.
And dont forget to tell my dear daddy,
That I'm still his dutiful darling son Paddy,
And likewise Darby, tell my sister Onagh
That I saw the big fish that swallowed up Jonah.
Forget it not Darby, a fool can think of it,
Says you, it is the same beast, wolfed the poor prophet.
Give my love to my sweetheart, Mary,
The star of Hibernia, the pride of Tipperary
Tell her that tho' twixt us there is a great barrier,
I may yet see the day that Pauddeen can marry her,
Yerra, well I know, that my neighbours and cousins,
Will all gather round you in scores and in dozens.
And when you have told them all about lagging,
Musha Darby, tis yerself will get many a naggin
Yerra then Darby, you'll be in clover
And when all the hugging and kissing is over,
Stroll down to Maushe Counel, that lives in the moor,
And planted in the thatch, just over his door,
You'll find seven muskets and an old pike,
Deliver them yerself to ould Father Mike.
To the right owners let his reverence return them,
If he refuses to do so, my honest friend, burn them,
Only for the muskets, well may I remark,
Poor Paddy to-day wouldn't be in Hyde Park.
Tell the boys to beware of the great instigator,
Daniel O'Connell, the great agitator
The poor Paddys can't comprehend what he's doing
Damn him for evr, 'twas he wrought my ruin.
Tell the boys to desist from killing peelers and arson,
But cheerfully pay the tithe proctor and parson;
Why should they, Darby, be left in the lurch,
You know they're the heads of the Protestant Church.
To protect them, faith I'd spill my blood every drop.
And not only the tenth, but the half of my crop,
I'd freely give them without hesitation.
To free me from Botany and vile transportation.
I'd forsake the chapel, and ould Father Mike,
The caravats, shillelagh and Ribbonman's pike;
I'd make peace with my God, live in charity with men,
Musha Darby, Botany Bay wouldn't catch Pat again.
Notes
The line "From wearing the darbies, my limbs are grown feeble", shows how familiar the author was with prison argot. The darbies are, of course fetters, or irons that transportees wore even as they were on board the prison ships. This use is given in the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue which gives as examples "To twig the darbies; to knock off the irons." and "To chive the darbies; to file off the irons or fetters."
The fact that this poem was published in the Sydney Gazette suggests it eluded the censorship at the time by being read literally. The most likely reading is to see it as replete with coded messages for Irish rebels, and what better way would there be to get the message out than in a semi official newspaper? That is what Meredith and Whalan suggest in Frank the Poet. The poet Les Murray includes this poem in Hell and After (2005) and writes: "The curious gallimaufry ... was the only work by MacNamara to appear in print in his lifetime"
Cyprus Brig
A song by Francis MacNamara
Collected by Lloyd Robson from J.H.Davies of Newtown, Tasmania, 1961.
And by the laws of our Game Act as you may understand
Were fourteen years transported boys all to Van Diemen's Land
When we landed in this colony to different masters sent
For little trifling offences boys to Hobart Town gaol were sent
Now the second sentence we received and ordered for to be
Sent to Macquarie Harbour that place of tyranny
Down Hobart Town streets we were guarded on the Cyprus Brig conveyed
Our topsails they were hoisted boys our anchor it was weighed
The wind it blew a nor nor west and on we steered straight way
Till we brought her to an anchorage in a place called Recherche Bay
Now confined in a dismal hole those lads contrived a plan
To take possession of that brig or else die every man
The plan it being approved upon we all retired to rest
And early next morning boys we put them to the test
Up steps bold Jack Muldemon his comrades three more
We soon disarmed the sentry and left him in his gore
Liberty Oh Liberty it's Liberty we crave
Deliver up your arms my boys or the sea shall be your grave
First we landed the soldiers the captain and his crew
We gave three cheers for Liberty and soon bid them adieu
William Swallows he was chosen our commander for to be
We gave three cheers for Liberty and boldly put to sea
Play on your golden trumpets boys and sound your cheerful notes
The Cyprus Brig's on the ocean boys by justice does she float
Notes
Lloyd Robson: Well perhaps you'd like to tell us then something about this song the Seizure of the Brig Cyprus Mr. Davies.
J.H.Davies: Well about all I can tell you about prisoners transported out here ... well they were sent out for fourteen years you see, and when they got to Hobart of course they were sent out to different Masters to work on farms mostly and for little offences they got sent to gaol to get a second sentence see. They were transported for the second sentence to Macquarie Harbour, to receive the second sentence you see. Of course that was a quite common thing in the prison times you know. They used to take these men out, ticket-of-leave men, they had to pay 'em a small wage, well of course there was no such thing as pay day in those days ... they paid you when you got the sack or else not at all. Well what they used to do the farmers in those days apply to get two or three or whatever they wanted onto their farm, and then when they had a bit of a cheque to come, they'd rig up some crime again 'em and send them into Hobart. Give them a letter to bring in to walk in perhaps ... the old boss was far away when they got to the gaol it was a letter to get a floggin'. That was quite common, and of course they'd lose their pay then, perhaps they's been workin' three months or more and get nothing for it, 'cause they'd committed an offence you see.
Lloyd Robson: Could you sing us this particular song, now then? How does that song go, about the Cyprus?
J.H.Davies: The Cyprus Brig? Yeah, I'll do me best.
[Recording transcribed by Mark Gregory April 2011]
The seizure of convict ships by convicts happened a number of times. This particular event occured in August 1829, and a manuscript in the Mitchell Library has a poem of 48 lines that commemorates the seizure. Titled 'Seizure of the Cyprus Brig in Recherche Bay' it is printed in Geoffrey Ingleton's True Patriots All and attributed to Frank MacNamara (Frank the Poet).
Hugh Anderson in his encylopaedic book Fairwell to Judges & Juries (2000:608) writes:
'A very good account of the events dealt with here is in F Clune and PR. Stephensen's "docu-fictional account", The Pirates of the Brig Cyprus (London, 1962), and which is complemented by the contemporary reports of the trial of the mutineers (14 October~ 14 December 1834) in S.A.Spence's book (Mitcham, Surrey, 1968).William Swallow, alias Brown, a seaman from North Shields, who was married with two children and aged 39 years when tried for housebreaking in Surrey, led a remarkable if miserable life. He was born at Sunderland in 1792, and as William Walker was apprenticed in a collier when aged 15 years. Three years later he was press ganged in the Royal Navy and served two years before being discharged into the chronic unemployment after the Napoleonic Wars. He sank into complete poverty and in October 1820 was caught stealing clothes and food down-valued to eightpence, for which he was given seven years transportation. On the way to London on the Merchant Packet Swallow jumped overboard, later claiming he had fallen from the rigging. Under the name William Walker he was sentenced at Durham in January 1821 for stealing a quilt and arrived in Hobart on the Malabar later that year. He did not remain in the colony for long, but absconded in the Deveron in 1823. As Swallow he was returned on 18 April 1829 on the Georgiana with a life sentence. Nevertheless, his convict record states he was "a very good man. William Swallow died at Port Arthur in May 1834.'
See Cyprus Brig trial Colonial Times (1831)
See also Cyprus Brig sighting: Sydney Gazette (1829)
Collected by Lloyd Robson from J.H.Davies of Newtown, Tasmania, 1961.
 |
| Cyprus Brig: J.H. Davies tune |
Poor Tom Brown from Nottingham Jack Williams and poor Joe
They were three gallant poacher boys their country all does knowAnd by the laws of our Game Act as you may understand
Were fourteen years transported boys all to Van Diemen's Land
When we landed in this colony to different masters sent
For little trifling offences boys to Hobart Town gaol were sent
Now the second sentence we received and ordered for to be
Sent to Macquarie Harbour that place of tyranny
Down Hobart Town streets we were guarded on the Cyprus Brig conveyed
Our topsails they were hoisted boys our anchor it was weighed
The wind it blew a nor nor west and on we steered straight way
Till we brought her to an anchorage in a place called Recherche Bay
Now confined in a dismal hole those lads contrived a plan
To take possession of that brig or else die every man
The plan it being approved upon we all retired to rest
And early next morning boys we put them to the test
Up steps bold Jack Muldemon his comrades three more
We soon disarmed the sentry and left him in his gore
Liberty Oh Liberty it's Liberty we crave
Deliver up your arms my boys or the sea shall be your grave
First we landed the soldiers the captain and his crew
We gave three cheers for Liberty and soon bid them adieu
William Swallows he was chosen our commander for to be
We gave three cheers for Liberty and boldly put to sea
Play on your golden trumpets boys and sound your cheerful notes
The Cyprus Brig's on the ocean boys by justice does she float
Notes
Lloyd Robson: Well perhaps you'd like to tell us then something about this song the Seizure of the Brig Cyprus Mr. Davies.
J.H.Davies: Well about all I can tell you about prisoners transported out here ... well they were sent out for fourteen years you see, and when they got to Hobart of course they were sent out to different Masters to work on farms mostly and for little offences they got sent to gaol to get a second sentence see. They were transported for the second sentence to Macquarie Harbour, to receive the second sentence you see. Of course that was a quite common thing in the prison times you know. They used to take these men out, ticket-of-leave men, they had to pay 'em a small wage, well of course there was no such thing as pay day in those days ... they paid you when you got the sack or else not at all. Well what they used to do the farmers in those days apply to get two or three or whatever they wanted onto their farm, and then when they had a bit of a cheque to come, they'd rig up some crime again 'em and send them into Hobart. Give them a letter to bring in to walk in perhaps ... the old boss was far away when they got to the gaol it was a letter to get a floggin'. That was quite common, and of course they'd lose their pay then, perhaps they's been workin' three months or more and get nothing for it, 'cause they'd committed an offence you see.
Lloyd Robson: Could you sing us this particular song, now then? How does that song go, about the Cyprus?
J.H.Davies: The Cyprus Brig? Yeah, I'll do me best.
[Recording transcribed by Mark Gregory April 2011]
The seizure of convict ships by convicts happened a number of times. This particular event occured in August 1829, and a manuscript in the Mitchell Library has a poem of 48 lines that commemorates the seizure. Titled 'Seizure of the Cyprus Brig in Recherche Bay' it is printed in Geoffrey Ingleton's True Patriots All and attributed to Frank MacNamara (Frank the Poet).
Hugh Anderson in his encylopaedic book Fairwell to Judges & Juries (2000:608) writes:
'A very good account of the events dealt with here is in F Clune and PR. Stephensen's "docu-fictional account", The Pirates of the Brig Cyprus (London, 1962), and which is complemented by the contemporary reports of the trial of the mutineers (14 October~ 14 December 1834) in S.A.Spence's book (Mitcham, Surrey, 1968).William Swallow, alias Brown, a seaman from North Shields, who was married with two children and aged 39 years when tried for housebreaking in Surrey, led a remarkable if miserable life. He was born at Sunderland in 1792, and as William Walker was apprenticed in a collier when aged 15 years. Three years later he was press ganged in the Royal Navy and served two years before being discharged into the chronic unemployment after the Napoleonic Wars. He sank into complete poverty and in October 1820 was caught stealing clothes and food down-valued to eightpence, for which he was given seven years transportation. On the way to London on the Merchant Packet Swallow jumped overboard, later claiming he had fallen from the rigging. Under the name William Walker he was sentenced at Durham in January 1821 for stealing a quilt and arrived in Hobart on the Malabar later that year. He did not remain in the colony for long, but absconded in the Deveron in 1823. As Swallow he was returned on 18 April 1829 on the Georgiana with a life sentence. Nevertheless, his convict record states he was "a very good man. William Swallow died at Port Arthur in May 1834.'
See Cyprus Brig trial Colonial Times (1831)
See also Cyprus Brig sighting: Sydney Gazette (1829)
A Convict's Tour to Hell
 |
| Convict on the hulk Success, Port Phillip Bay |
Nor can the foremost of the sons of men
Escape my ribald and licentious pen
Swift
Composed and written October 23rd day, Anno 1839
A Poem by Francis MacNamara
You prisoners all of New South Wales,
A story to you I will tell
'Tis of a convict's tour to hell.
Whose valour had for years been tried
On the highway before he died
At length he fell to death a prey
To him it proved a happy day
Downwards he bent his course I'm told
Like one destined for Satan's fold
And no refreshment would he take
'Till he approached the Stygian lake
A tent he then began to fix
Continuous to the River Styx
Thinking that no one could molest him
He leaped when Charon thus addressed him,
Stranger I say from whence art thou,
And thy own name, pray tell me now,
Kind sir I come from Sydney gaol
My name I don't mean to conceal
And since you seem anxious to know it
On earth I was called Frank the Poet
Are you that person? Charon cried
I'll carry you to the other side
So stranger do not troubled be
For you shall have a passage free
Five or sixpence I mostly charge
For the like passage in my barge
So stranger do not troubled be
For you shall have a passage free
Frank seeing no other succour nigh
With the invitation did comply
And having a fair wind and tide
They soon arrived at the other side
And leaving Charon at the ferry
 |
| Pope Pius VII |
And rapping loudly at the gate
Of Limbo, or the Middle State
Pope Pius the 7th soon appeared
With gown, beads, crucifix and beard
And gazing at the Poet the while
Accosts him in the following style
Stranger art thou a friend or foe
Your business here I fain would know
Quoth the Poet for Heaven I'm not fitted
And here I hope to be admitted
Pius rejoined, vain are your hopes
This place was made for Priests and Popes
'Tis a world of our own invention
But friend I've not the least intention
To admit such a foolish elf
Who scarce knows how to bless himself
Quoth Frank were you mad or insane
When first you made this world of pain?
For I can see nought but fire
A share of which I can't desire
Here I see weeping wailing gnashing
And torments of the newest fashion
Therefore I call you silly elf
Who made a rod to whip yourself
And may you like all honest neighbours
Enjoy the fruit of all your labours
Frank then bid the Pope farewell
And hurried to that place called Hell
And having found the gloomy gate
Frank rapped aloud to know his fate
He louder knocked and louder still
When the Devil came, pray what's your will?
Alas cried the Poet I've come to dwell
With you and share your fate in Hell
Says Satan that can't be, I'm sure
For I detest and hate the poor
And none shall in my kingdom stand
Except the grandees of the land.
But Frank I think you are going astray
For convicts never come this way
But soar to Heaven in droves and legions
A place so called in the upper regions
So Frank I think with an empty purse
You shall go further and fare worse
Well cried the Poet since 'tis so
One thing of you I'd like to know
As I'm at present in no hurry
Have you one here called Captain Murray?
Yes Murray is within this place
Would you said Satan see his face?
May God forbid that I should view him
For on board the Phoenix Hulk I knew him
 |
| Captain Logan |
Who on fire and brimstone seems to graze?
'Tis Captain Logan of Moreton Bay
And Williams who was killed the other day
He was overseer at Grosse Farm
And done poor convicts no little harm
Cook who discovered New South Wales
And he that first invented gaols
Are both tied to a fiery stake
Which stands in yonder boiling lake
Hark do you hear this dreadful yelling
It issues from Doctor Wardell's dwelling
And all those fiery seats and chairs
Are fitted up for Dukes and Mayors
And nobles of Judicial orders
Barristers, Lawyers and Recorders
Here I beheld legions of traitors
Hangmen gaolers and flagellators
Commandants, Constables and Spies
Informers and Overseers likewise
In flames of brimstone they were toiling
 |
| Dr Wardell - St James Church Sydney South Wall |
Hell did resound with their fierce yelling
Alas how dismal was their dwelling
Then Major Morriset I espied
And Captain Cluney by his side
With a fiery belt they were lashed together
As tight as soles to upper leather
Their situation was most horrid
For they were tyrants down at the Norrid
Postrate I beheld a petitioner
It was the Company's Commissioner
Satan said he my days are ended
For many years I've superintended
The An. Company's affairs
And I punctually paid all arrears
Sir should you doubt the hopping Colonel
At Carrington you'll find my journal
Legibly penned in black and white
To prove that my accounts were right
And since I've done your will on earth
I hope you'll put me in a berth
Then I saw old Sergeant Flood
In Vulcan's hottest forge he stood
He gazed at me his eyes with ire
Appeared like burning coals of fire
In fiery garments he was arrayed
And like an Arabian horse he brayed
He on a bloody cutlass leaned
And to a lamp-post he was chained
He loudly called out for assistance
Or begged me to end his existence
Cheer up said I be not afraid
Remember No. Three Stockade
In the course of time you may do well
If you behave yourself in Hell
Your heart on earth was fraught with malice
Which oft drove convicts to the gallows
But you'll now atone for all the blood
Of prisoners shed by Sergeant Flood.
Then I beheld that well known Trapman
The Police Runner called Izzy Chapman
Here he was standing on his head
In a river of melted boiling lead.
Alas he cried behold me stranger
I've captured many a bold bushranger
And for the same I'm suffering here
But lo, now yonder snakes draw near
On turning round I saw slow worms
And snakes of various kinds and forms
All entering at his mouth and nose
To devour his entrails as I suppose
Then turning round to go away
Bold Lucifer bade me to stay
Saying Frank by no means go man
Till you see your old friend Dr Bowman
'Yonder he tumbles groans and gnashes
He gave you many a thousand lashes
And for the same he does bewail
For Osker with an iron flail
Thrashes him well you may depend
And will till the world comes to an end
Just as I spoke a coach and four
 |
| Governor Darling |
And about six feet of mortal sin
Without leave or licence trudged in
At his arrival three cheers were given
Which rend I'm sure the highest Heaven
And all the inhabitants of Hell
With one consent rang the great bell
Which never was heard to sound or ring
Since Judas sold our Heavenly King
Drums were beating flags were hoisting
There never before was such rejoicing
Dancing singing joy or mirth
In Heaven above or on the earth
Straightway to Lucifer I went
To know what these rejoicings meant
Of sense cried Lucifer I'm deprived
Since Governor Darling has arrived
With fire and brimstone I've ordained him
And Vulcan has already chained him
And I'm going to fix an abode
For Captain Rossi, he's on the road
Frank don't go 'till you see the novice
The magistrate from the Police Office
Oh said the Poet I'm satisfied
To hear that he is to be tied
And burned in this world of fire
I think 'tis high time to retire
And having travelled many days
O'er fiery hills and boiling seas
At length I found that happy place
Where all the woes of mortals cease
And rapping loudly at the wicket
Cried Peter, where's your certificate
 |
| John Jenkins |
Pray who in Heaven do you know?
Well I know Brave Donohue
Young Troy and Jenkins too
And many others whom floggers mangled
And lastly were by Jack Ketch strangled
Peter, says Jesus, let Frank in
For he is thoroughly purged from sin
And although in convict's habit dressed
Here he shall be a welcome guest
Isaiah go with him to Job
And put on him a scarlet robe
St Paul go to the flock straightway
And kill the fatted calf today
And go tell Abraham and Abel
In Haste now to prepare the table
For we shall have a grand repast
Since Frank the Poet has come at last
Then came Moses and Elias
John the Baptist and Mathias
With many saints from foreign lands
And with the Poet they all join hands
Thro' Heaven's Concave their rejoicings range
And hymns of praise to God they sang
And as they praised his glorious name
I woke and found 'twas but a dream.
Notes:
It's hard not to imagine the shear pleasure convicts would have enjoyed on hearing this great poem, and hear it they did, and memorised it or parts of it well enough for 19th century collectors to copy down and piece together.
There is an interesting doubling up of lines early in the poem that suggest this was a copy from another manuscript:
So stranger do not troubled be
For you shall have a passage free
Five or sixpence I mostly charge
For the like passage in my barge
So stranger do not troubled be
For you shall have a passage free
There is an interesting doubling up of lines early in the poem that suggest this was a copy from another manuscript:
So stranger do not troubled be
For you shall have a passage free
Five or sixpence I mostly charge
For the like passage in my barge
So stranger do not troubled be
For you shall have a passage free
MacNamara mentions a number of bushrangers he knows to be in heaven and one of them is John Jenkins who in November 1834 was publicly hanged for the murder of Dr Wardell. According to the Sydney Herald of 13 November 1834, 'the neighbourhood of the gaol was crowded to a degree never before observed on any similar occasion', because Jenkins's truculent behaviour to court had aroused the expectation that he would make a particularly spirited exit from the world. His speech from the drop began with the words:
Well, good bye my lads, I have not time to say much to you. I acknowledge I shot the Doctor, but it was not for gain, it was for the sake of my fellow prisoners because he was a tyrant and I have one thing to recommend you as a friend, if any of you take the bush, shoot every tyrant you come across, and there are several now in the yard who ought to be served so.
If Jenkins was in Heaven the man he murdered, Dr Wardell, was discovered by the poet in Hell
Hark do you hear this dreadful yelling
It issues from Doctor Wardell's dwelling
Interestingly we have portraits of both men, Wardell has a marble plaque on the southern wall of the St James' Church in Sydney, and a court reporter drew a likeness of Jenkins during his trial.
Interestingly we have portraits of both men, Wardell has a marble plaque on the southern wall of the St James' Church in Sydney, and a court reporter drew a likeness of Jenkins during his trial.
 |
| From Trimingham Mss. Year of composition 1839 |
For the Company Underground
A poem by Francis MacNamara (1839)
Recited by Denis Kevans
When Christ from Heaven comes down straightway,
All His Father's laws to expound,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the man in the moon to Moreton Bay,
Is sent in shackles bound
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the Cape of Good Hope to Twofold Bay
Comes for the change of a pound.
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When cows in lieu of milk yield tea,
And all lost treasures are found,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the Australian Co's heaviest dray
Is drawn 80 miles by a hound,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When a frog, a caterpillar and a flea
Shall travel the globe all round,
McNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When turkeycocks on Jews harps play
And mountains dance at the sound,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When Christmas falls on the 1st of May
And O'Connell's King of England crown'd,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When thieves ever robbing on the highway
For their sanctity are renowned,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the quick and the dead shall stand in array
Cited at the trumpet's sound,
Even then, damn me if I'd work a day
For the Company underground.
Nor overground.
Notes
Denis Kevans recorded this poem in 1984 for the cassette tape 'Trains of Treasure' a collection of Australian Railway songs and poems produced by the Combined Railway Unions Cultural Exhibition Committee at Chullora Railway Workshops in Sydney.
The convict record of MacNamara is unclear about his trade and as he worked at a number of jobs. He was however described as a 'miner' when he was transported. Whether he ever worked in a mine in Australia is not clear, but he did write two poems that made it clear he certainly didn't want to! The first was in the form of a petition from his sheep (he worked as a shepherd for the Australian Agricultural Company) pleading that his services to them should be continued and that he should not be sent to the company coal mine in Newcastle.
Our cries from the hills shall resound
To the extremes of the Poles
If our friend goes underground
At Newcastle to wheel coals.
see A Petition from the A.A. Co. Flocks at Peel River
The Company Underground above uses the same biting humour to describe what is essentially a refusal to work and the surrealistic impossible events that would still not change his decision.
Recited by Denis Kevans
When Christ from Heaven comes down straightway,
All His Father's laws to expound,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the man in the moon to Moreton Bay,
Is sent in shackles bound
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the Cape of Good Hope to Twofold Bay
Comes for the change of a pound.
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When cows in lieu of milk yield tea,
And all lost treasures are found,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the Australian Co's heaviest dray
Is drawn 80 miles by a hound,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When a frog, a caterpillar and a flea
Shall travel the globe all round,
McNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When turkeycocks on Jews harps play
And mountains dance at the sound,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When Christmas falls on the 1st of May
And O'Connell's King of England crown'd,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When thieves ever robbing on the highway
For their sanctity are renowned,
MacNamara shall work that day
For the Company underground.
When the quick and the dead shall stand in array
Cited at the trumpet's sound,
Even then, damn me if I'd work a day
For the Company underground.
Nor overground.
Notes
Denis Kevans recorded this poem in 1984 for the cassette tape 'Trains of Treasure' a collection of Australian Railway songs and poems produced by the Combined Railway Unions Cultural Exhibition Committee at Chullora Railway Workshops in Sydney.
The convict record of MacNamara is unclear about his trade and as he worked at a number of jobs. He was however described as a 'miner' when he was transported. Whether he ever worked in a mine in Australia is not clear, but he did write two poems that made it clear he certainly didn't want to! The first was in the form of a petition from his sheep (he worked as a shepherd for the Australian Agricultural Company) pleading that his services to them should be continued and that he should not be sent to the company coal mine in Newcastle.
Our cries from the hills shall resound
To the extremes of the Poles
If our friend goes underground
At Newcastle to wheel coals.
see A Petition from the A.A. Co. Flocks at Peel River
The Company Underground above uses the same biting humour to describe what is essentially a refusal to work and the surrealistic impossible events that would still not change his decision.
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