With breeches threadbare and worn,
With jumper running to seed,
An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut,
Smoking his favourite weed.
Puff! Puff! Puff!
Oh, when shall I rise from this state?
And still with a tone like a heart-broken lark—
Would that its wail would reach Long Clarke—
He sang the song of his fate.
Mark Pringle Stoddart.