When you arrive at Sydney, sailing up <br />The harbour, a small central isle you'll see; <br />With two or three low huts, but not a tree, <br />Nor blade of grass,-upon't; and, on the top, <br />A score of men, in coarse habiliments, <br />Hewing the rock away. You may remember, <br />Among the many evil-traced events <br />Of a town life, some robbery, when December <br />Brought on the long, dark nights-a neighbour's boy <br />Tried for't, and banished. He, perchance, is one, <br />Who yonder lift the pickaxe in the sun <br />To level Pinchgut Island! If e'er joy <br />Gladden'd your heart on England's shore, oh! Never <br />Forget that Englishmen are banished here for ever.<br /><br />Sir Henry Parkes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-69/
