Smuggler’s Poem

In a small village on the south coast
Squeezed between the downs and right upon the sea,
There lurk the ghosts of villagers past,
The ghosts of you and me.

Rottingdean remembers, Rottingdean remembers well
For one night in December those ghosts will all run free.

Marching down the high street, drumming on the green
Surrounded by gun smoke, hidden by the flames
They are coming back to haunt us,
Nightmares from a dream
Rottingdean remembers, Rottingdean remembers well
Rottingdean remembers assembled on the green

The drums will roll, smoke will linger
Whipping post lane, the pointing finger
The smugglers are coming,
Tobacco, lace and ginger
The cold December air will echo
The surrounding hills will crack
Rottingdean remembers, Rottingdean remembers well
Rottingdean remembers assembled on the green

Lights offshore a glowing
Contraband for stowing
Smugglers use the windmill
To signal when to pass
The Reverend Hooker standing guard
Once again is late for mass

Tunnels under ground, caves upon the beach
You be on the lookout
As they lookout for you and me
Rottingdean remembers, Rottingdean remembers well
Rottingdean remembers assembled on the green.
For one night in December those ghosts will all run free.