A Yorkshire Poet Poet Ballad

T’ Sea’s Tithe

“Wreck ashore! Wreck ashore!” came t’ cry on t’ wind,
Lanterns lit quick as t’ dark rolled in.
Steady on wi’ thi crates — them crabs an’ Welch’s near!
‘Tis whiskey this — nee chance it’ll spoil in ‘ere.

Rain an’ wind can’t find us here,
Sea maybe… but we’ll sup wi’ cheer.
These caves lead straight t’ father’s hoose,
An’ more beyond to hide these fruits.

Lantern sways on dripping stone,
Bottles clink as up we groan.
Scraped bloody knee an’ t’ elbow ache,
Forgotten soon wi’ profit make.

Tha whines an’ bawls cos tha’s lug crates,
Twelve bottles o’ nectar — tha’ll thank me, wait!
“Easy now lads, keep t’ lantern low —
Up t’ bolt-hole sharp we go.”

‘Tis salvage this, not looting mate,
Pulled from out them vicious waves’ gate.
Straw spills soft as t’ crate we crack,
Golden smell comes drifting back.

Eeh, t’ excise’ll come — nee doubt o’ that,
Sniffin’ round like dockside rat.
T’ excise searched caves an’ barns galore,
Yet weddings rang on t’ village shore.

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