Home

 

 

 

Cornwall  Smugglers

with

Coast Guard / Revenue / Salt Officers

 

 



Poems and Ditties

A Smuggler's Song

by Rudyard Kipling


If you wake at Midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson.
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump, if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.
Put the brushwood back again - and they'll be gone next day!

Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson.
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

If you see the stable door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more!

Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson.
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,
You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you "pretty maid", and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!

Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson.
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,
You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of pretty lace, and a velvet hood -
A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!

Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson.
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

           

 Mistress of the Trade, 

By Anon

 

On Nanjizal Bay there lived a maid

Oh faddy raddle-ray

And she was mistress of the trade

And full of spirit they do say

With a faddy raddle raddle ray

A  raddle raddle ray.

0-0-0

Chorus

Smuggling, yes smuggling,

smuggling was her ru-i-n

She'll go no more a smuggling

A raddle raddle ray.

0-0-0

If you went down Nanjizal Bay

Oh faddy raddle ray

To this lady you had to pay

For she was mistress of the trade

With a faddy raddle raddle ray

A  raddle raddle ray.

0-0-0

Chorus.

0-0-0

 She'd sell you tea wrapped up in silk

Oh faddy raddle-ray

The parsons wife a lace thread kilt

Some French wines left she for hisself

With a faddy raddle raddle ray

A  raddle raddle ray.

 0-0-0

Chorus

0-0-0

The magistrate he�d face the wall

Oh faddy raddle ray

When this fine lady came to call

Hid brandy kegs within his wall

With a faddy raddle raddle ray

A  raddle raddle ray.

 

Chorus

 

0-0-0

 

 

 

     

A Cornish Lullaby:

By Crosbie Garstin

 

Hush my little ugling,
Daddy's gone a-smuggling.
He has gone to Roscoff 

In the Mevagissey Maid -
A sloop of ninety tons
With ten brass carriage guns -
To teach the king's ships manners
And respect for honest trade.
 

Sleep my joy and sorrow,
Daddy'll come tomorrow,
Bringing 'baccy, tea and snuff,
And brandy home from France.
He'll bring the goods ashore
While the old collectors snore,
And the black dragooners gamble
In the dens of old Penzance.

Rock-a-bye my honey,
For Daddy's making money.
You shall be a gentleman
And sail with privateers,
With a silver cup in your sack,
A blue coat upon your back,

And diamonds on your fingerbones,
And gold rings in your ears.

0-0-0-0

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Ballad Of Smuggling Days

By Bessie Rayner Parkes


 

PART I

'THE night is dark as pitch, Harry,
But there's not a drop of rain,
And when the tide has risen
They'll all be there again;

'By yonder little eastward bay,
With the crags on either hand,
A lonely place,--'tis there, I think,
They'll run the boats to land.

'Ten of the worst and wildest lads
Are coming across the sea,
And the largest boat of the two, Harry,
Will be laden heavily.'

They walk'd along the shore three miles,
The strong and fearless men,
As many as they could muster,--
But the force was smaller then,--

Till all within the shadow stood,
Speaking never a word;
Then over the sea the first boat
Came flying like a bird.

PART II.

Bright on the morrow rose the sun
And glitter'd on the sea,
The rippled foam of the ebbing tide
Was as white as it could be;
The long brown fields of trackless sand
Betray'd no mystery.

'Let us go to the bay, Harry;
'Twere well to find some token
Of who the smugglers were; 'tis strange
That not a word was spoken,
Nor, save by oaths and dying groans,
That awful silence broken.'

Out to the bay went both the men,
And, onward as they pass,
The fishing-boats were doubled in
A sea as smooth as glass:
Until one stoop'd, and said, 'My God!
Here's blood upon the grass.'

'Here, Harry! no, it cannot be,
We came not near this wood.'
Yet both the men paus'd silently,
And trembled as they stood,
For the round red drops were plain to see,
And nothing looks like blood.

Over the little violet-leaves
They track'd the life-stains on,
Over the jagg'd grey shadows
Of the lichen-crusted stone,
And midst the shining silver dew,
That ghastly crimson shone.

Beside the brook, by swaying reeds,
Under the shudd'ring trees,
And where the trailing ivy-sprays
Were singing to the breeze,
Sprinkled about the glorious grass
And white anemones

They track'd it on; at last, a roof
Of sunlit leaves beneath,
Its white face nestled in the grass,
Lay the cold Thing of death;
The small birds sang in vain to it
With meek persuasive breath;

And all around, the lovely wood
Was pouring forth a hymn
At morning dawn: to his dead ear
All but God's trump were dim,
The anthem and the loveliness
Are nothing now to him.

Quiet he lay, and Harry bent
And touch'd the curling hair,

Which lay in tangles, and rais'd up
The face into the air,
And a sudden sob broke fearfully,
Of the strong man's great despair.

'Thou! sadly lost, and now found thus,
Thou darling of my mother!
Whose name has been a banish'd word,
Still dearer than all other.'
Great God! how long must blood cry out?
The smuggler was his brother.

0-0-0-0

 

 

 

 

Researched and compiled by George Pritchard of Penhalvean, Cornwall, UK.

 
    Copyright George Pritchard of Penhalvean 

Last modified: Saturday August 03, 2013 .

George P Web Design