The cargo's lower'd from the dark skiff's side, And the tow-line drags the tubs through the tide, No trick nor flam, But your real Schiedam. "Now mount, my merry men, mount and ride!" Three on the crupper and one before, And the led-horse laden with five tubs more; But the rich point-lace, In the oil-skin case Of proof to guard its contents from ill, The "prime of the swag," is with Smuggler Bill!
Merrily now, in a goodly row, Away, and away, those smugglers go, And they laugh at Exciseman Gill, ho! ho! When out from the turn Of the road to Herne, Comes Gill, wide awake to the whole concern! Exciseman Gill, in all his pride, With his Custom-house officers all at his side; —They were called Custom-house officers then; There were no such things as "Preventive men."
Sauve qui peut! That lawless crew, Away, and away, and away they flew! Some dropping one tub, some dropping two:— Some gallop this way, and some gallop that, Through Fordwich Level—o'er Sandwich Flat, Some fly that way, and some fly this, Like a covey of birds when the sportsmen miss; These in their hurry Make for Sturry, With Custom-house officers close in their rear, Down Rushbourne Lane, and so by Westbere, None of them stopping, But shooting and popping, And many a Custom-house bullet goes slap Through many a three-gallon tub like a tap, And the gin spirts out, And squirts all about, And many a heart grew sad that day That so much good liquor was so thrown away.
Sauve qui peut! That lawless crew, Away, and away, and away they flew! Some seek Whitstable—some Grove Ferry, Spurring and whipping like madmen—very— For the life! for the life! they ride! they ride! And the Custom-house officers all divide, And they gallop on after them far and wide! All, all, save one—Exciseman Gill,— He sticks to the skirts of Smuggler Bill!
Smuggler Bill is six feet high, He has curling locks, and a roving eye, He has a tongue, and he has a smile Train'd the female heart to beguile, And there is not a farmer's wife in the Isle, From St. Nicholas quite To the Foreland Light, But that eye, and that tongue, and that smile will wheedle her To have done with the Grocer, and make him her Tea-dealer; There is not a farmer there but he still Buys gin and tobacco from Smuggler Bill.
Smuggler Bill rides gallant and gay On his dapple-grey mare, away, and away, And he pats her neck, and he seems to say, "Follow who will, ride after who may, In sooth he had need Fodder his steed, In lieu of Lent-corn, with a Quicksilver feed; —Nor oats, nor beans, nor the best of old hay, Will make him a match for my own dapple-grey! Ho! ho!—ho! ho!" says Smuggler Bill— He draws out his flask, and he sips his fill, And he laughs "Ho! ho!" at Exciseman Gill.
Down Chistlett Lane, so free and so fleet Rides Smuggler Bill, and away to Up-street;— Sarre Bridge is won— Bill thinks it fun; "Ho! ho! the old tub-gauging son of a gun— His wind will be thick, and his breeks be thin, Ere a race like this he may hope to win!"
Away, away Goes the fleet dapple-grey, Fresh as the breeze, and free as the wind, And Exciseman Gill lags far behind. "I would give my soul," quoth Exciseman Gill, "For a nag that would catch that Smuggler Bill!— No matter for blood, no matter for bone, No matter for colour, bay, brown, or roan, So I had but one!"— A voice cried "Done!" "Ay, dun," said Exciseman Gill,—and he spied A custom-house officer close by his side, On a high-trotting horse with a dun-coloured hide.— "Devil take me," again quoth Exciseman Gill, "If I had but that horse, I'd have Smuggler Bill!"
From his using such shocking expressions, it's plain That Exciseman Gill was rather profane. He was, it is true, As bad as a Jew, A sad old scoundrel as ever you knew, And he rode in his stirrups sixteen stone two. —He'd just utter'd the words which I've mention'd to you, When his horse, coming slap on his knees with him, threw Him head over heels, and away he flew, And Exciseman Gill was bruised black and blue.
When he arose, His hands and his clothes Were as filthy as could be,—he'd pitch'd on his nose, And roll'd over and over again in the mud, And his nose and his chin were all covered with blood; Yet he scream'd with passion, "I'd rather grill Than not come up with that Smuggler Bill!" —"Mount! Mount!" quoth the Custom-house officer, "get On the back of my Dun, you'll bother him yet. Your words are plain, though they're somewhat rough, 'Done and Done' between gentlemen's always enough!— I'll lend you a lift—there—you're up on him—so,— He's a rum one to look at—a devil to go!" Exciseman Gill Dash'd up the hill, And mark'd not, so eager was he in pursuit, The queer Custom-house officer's queer-looking boot.