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about
No Grass Grows on His Grave
The local excise man understands that without the income from smuggling, his struggling community would starve, and is much beloved for ’turning his face to the wall’ as the smugglers go by. Wreckers, though, are another matter: men whose actions kill, rather than create a pecuniary inconvenience for the government — and his well-founded personal hatred for them has dire, unintended, consequences. The wreckers cost him both of the women he loved, but he, good man though we take him to be, is the man left with blood on his hands.
Excise men were employed by the government to collect taxes on imported and domestically produced goods, and to prevent the illegal importation of goods — ie. smuggling. Though it is said that the majority of 18th and 19th century smuggling occurred in the South East of England, that in Cornwall is strongest in our imaginations, perhaps because of the relative importance that it had in the local economy. Wrecking too, is often held synonymous with Cornwall: a rugged shoreline, kept safe for shipping by lights and fires that marked key points — fires that could be doused and re-lit elsewhere to misdirect mariners and draw ships in to be wrecked and their cargo stolen. An internet search in 2023 throws up the information that this is a myth, but investigation shows that all of these entries lead back to a single source, an excellent PhD thesis exploring the matter, but one that states that ‘violent wrecking was not nearly as widespread and invidious as popular histories allow’ ... in other words ... it has been exaggerated, but it was real.
lyrics
No Grass Grows on His Grave Lyrics — Adam Summerhayes
That way lies our John, no grass grows on his grave.
Best you turn your back on him, for your soul he cannot save.
When he was a young man, he was strong and brave and tall,
His wife so fair and pretty, and he asked for nothing more,
Until the fire drew her ship in, and she drowned just off the shore.
And her soul he could not save,
So he lost his only joy in life,
And no grass grows on his grave.
He was our most loved excise man, with his face turned to the wall.
Their pretty daughter on his knee, and he asked for nothing more,
But he hated with a passion, the wreckers on the shore.
For her soul he could not save,
So he lost his only joy in life,
And no grass grows on his grave.
For smuggling feeds the living,
And wreckers feed on the dead,
So John scoured the night-dark shore,
To fill their hearts with lead.
But daughters stay not on your knee —
Love is a fickle flame.
A moth to the wrecker’s fires she went,
And Robbie was his name.
Our John saw the fatal blaze,
And fired into the night,
But he knew not what he hit,
Till the dawn’s corpse-grey light.
And her soul he could not save,
So he lost his only daughter,
And no grass grew on his grave.
So he lost his only daughter,
And no grass grew on his grave.
credits
from The Devil's On The Mast,
released June 2, 2023
Music by Adam Summerhayes, Murray Grainger and Kirsty Merryn
Produced and mixed by Murray Grainger. Lyrics by Adam Summerhayes and Kirsty Merryn
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