Smuggler’s Rock

On a stormed black night,
When the only light is the beacon,
Bright from the cliff’s great height,
I can hear their creams, always in my dreams,
I was eight years old,
Hungry scared and cold,
But a good lad does as he is told.

There is no dock at smuggler’s rock,
The sky is dark and the rocks are sharp,
It a second to chance the light,
And hear the ship’s crew in their plight.

The tunnels dug by my father and brothers,
Enough for me but too narrow for others,
A darkened path from cliff to farm,
I’m a child, I really mean no harm,
Heavy barrels: contraband,
Stolen by my innocent hand.

The women wait arround the bay,
There’ll be no ships in port today,
Their loved ones smashed or drowned at sea,
Blame our master don’t blame me,
For I’m the boy who climbs the heights,
To welcome ships with beacons so bright.