I discovered this poem, penned by convict and sailor James Porter, in his autobiography of 1844.

Those of you who know Graham Moore's song about the Tolpuddle Men, Albion's Shore, might recognize the last three verses. It looks like they were lifted without giving credit (have written to Graham).

I have set the song to my own melody here and Don Brian also set the poem to music on his album, The Convict Voice.


Em        C        G                D
How wretched is an exile’s state of mind,
         C        G        Am               D
When not one gleam of hope on earth remain,
        Em        G            C            G                D
Through grief worn down, with servile chains confined,
C                G        Am                    D
And not one friend to soothe his heartfelt pain.

Too true I know that man was made to mourn.
A heavy portion’s fallen to my lot.
With anguish full my aching heart is torn
Far from my friends by all the world forgot.

The feathered race with splendid plumage gay
Extend their throats with a discordant sound.
With liberty they spring from spray to spray,
While I a wretched exile gaze around.

Farewell my sister, aged parents dear.
Ere long my glass of life will cease to run.
In silence drop a sympathetic tear
For your unhappy exiled long-lost son;

O cease, my troubled aching heart, to beat,
Since happiness so far from thee has fled!
Haste, haste unto your silent cold retreat,
In clay-cold earth to mingle with the dead.