The Death of Morgan

Throughout Australian history no tongue or pen can tell
Of such preconcerted treachery—there is no parallel—
As the tragic deed of Morgan's death; without warning he was shot
On Peechelba station, it will never be forgot.

I have oft-times heard of murders in Australia's golden land,
But such an open daylight scene of thirty in a band,
Assembled at the dawn of day, and then to separate,
Behind the trees, some on their knees, awaiting Morgan's fate.

Too busy was the servant-maid; she trotted half the night
From Macpherson's down to Rutherford's the tidings to recite.
A messenger was sent away who for his neck had no regard,
He returned with a troop of traps in hopes of their reward.

But they were all disappointed; McQuinlan was the man
Who fired from his rifle and shot rebellious Dan.
Concealed he stood behind a tree till his victim came in view,
And as Morgan passed his doom was cast—the unhappy man he slew.

There was a rush for trophies, soon as the man was dead;
They cut off his beard, his ears, and the hair from off his head.
In truth it was a hideous sight as he struggled on the ground,
They tore the clothes from off his back and exposed the fatal wound.

Oh, Morgan was the travellers' friend; the squatters all rejoice
That the outlaw's life is at an end, no more they'll hear his voice.
Success attend all highwaymen who do the poor some good;
But my curse attend a treacherous man who'd shed another's blood.

Farewell to Burke, O'Meally, Young Gilbert and Ben Hall,
Likewise to Daniel Morgan, who fell by rifle-ball;
So all young men be warned and never take up arms,
Remember this, how true it is, bushranging hath no charms!
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