in 1803 we sailed out to sea, out from the sweet town of Derry
they bound us in chains, our poor faces drained
we thought it was the Holyhead ferry
O'Donnell's confused, asked is this a cruise
and where the hell are we going
myself i would say its no holiday
seen as we're chained and we're rowing
six weeks at sea, we are now forty three
the captain is a cruel master
and our escape plan, got way out of hand
the tunnel was a disaster
scurvy was rife, made hell of our life
with the chances of freedom remote
and boy it annoys, when the tannoy
keeps playing row row the boat
the ship struck a rock, oh lord what a shock
it turned nine times right over
someone said this is wrong, we're in the wrong song
the god dammed Irish Rover
to Van Diemens land, where its hell for a man
there's no wine or women
a barren old land, all rocks and sand
but i suppose we can always go swimming
