There’s snow on the beach, on the Isle of Wight,
It will be very cold tonight,
The pirates and smugglers are out and about,
All dressed in white to blot themselves out.

The Priest on the shore, with cart and horse,
Taking the brandy over his course,
Up through the chine, and down to the church,
Into the cellars, where no one will search.

Many’s the penny he’ll make in the town,
As he heads up the valley, over then down,
Back to the church, now hidden away,
The best night’s work he’s done all day.

But then in the vestry, scuffles, a scream,
And excise men rush onto the scene.
They capture the Priest, red handed at last,
Off now to prison, his smuggling days past.

The Priest asked his captors, how did they know?
“We followed your footprints, here in the snow”.
They say out of sight is all out of mind,
But not if you leave a trail behind.



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