Musical recording
Credits
Words: David Kelly
Music: Williams, McGuigan
Vocals: Owen Williams
(The mischief or The Running Trade. The smuggling trade was not illegal on the Isle of Man but jealously ring fenced by The Great Families of Mann)
Times were hard, coin was scarce, and starvation held no charms,
As we strove to win subsistence, from the fishing and the farms,
Held in thrall by tithe and taxes, meagre gains were to be made,
Yet as seamen we felt strong disposed to drive the running trade.
We ran no contraband for Moore, not Crellin, Gawne nor Kneale,
Nor dared we venture foot ashore at Castletown nor Peel,
We drove our trade by shingle cove, low cave and fishers track,
With chests of tea, and brandy, bales of silk and Spanish sack.
No use we made of horse nor cart, to leave no track nor rut,
No palfrey mounted messenger, covert work’s best kept afoot.
We ran the goods to Cumberland when the nights were dark and long,
Yet the path we trod would only serve the lucky and the strong.
One bleak and dreary Christmas Night, a north westerly did roar,
I’d lodged with Uncle Isaac to be handy for the shore.
At six O’clock a runner paused, his brief summons to relay,
A sloop from out of Cherbourg, lies close in to Bulgham Bay,
Perforce we made all haste to launch Ike’s long boat at the Dhoon,
While others cached the contraband ‘gainst the rising of the moon.
His hour glass close the captain marked as we toiled the night away,
And was hull down from Ballaraugh, when dawned St. Stephen’s day. (Bal arack)
The cutter was our means of choice the contraband to shift,
Albeit she was no great size, she was handy, taut and swift.
In the shoals and rips of Solway her keel drew little draft,
And she lay one point to windward off all revenuer craft.
With a brigantine in hot pursuit we round The Mull’s south cape,
To beat up The Northern Channel, and effect our best escape.
Flying ‘cross The Great Atlantic as if reaching for Cape Cod,
We ran for home by Fastnet Rock, and by the Grace of God.
Needs must, we plied the galley, which pulled four sweeps a side,
She served our turn when winds were foul, or all the wind had died.
Isaac studied tide and compass behind a well drilled crew,
We’ve rowed clear up to Whithorn, to make good a rendezvous
The tide race proffers energy to assist raw muscle power,
The current on a big spring tide can yield three miles an hour.
To rendezvous off Scotland’s coast, with the water high and slack,
A running flood to ease us there, the ebb would draw us back.
Some claim we were rank villains and I’ll grant that might seem true,
We were the children of bad times, and what better might we do.
Hark close now I’ll relate for you, lest these stirring memories fade,
Yarns of the daring, skill and craft, which drove the running trade.
David Kelly | Poetry & Short Stories 