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An old grey river winds through heavy miles of night
A sleeping town, ballast in the hold
Flee the famine in coal and potato bins
Blood money, three pounds a head
We came across as cargo, Mudcrawlers contraband
Over the side into the sucking tide
Just our own hands to guide us home
A gibbet against the sky, a blinking moon that flies
Up the muddy banks crawl contraband
In the foundations of new buildings, the bones of Irish families still lie
Cork for America, ended up right here
Mud and **** dried in our clothes and hair
Blind in the morning sun, we walk and then we run
Ballast cargo contraband
