In the Coppermill Inn, the old ones drank,
They spoke of a night, long, cold and dank.
Puffing a clay pipe old Ben he did say,
Remember the night poor Frank went away.
Aye says Joe, that was one bad night,
Wet and cold with scarce a light.
The fishing boats at moorings lay,
They would not sail out this day.
Frank was the captain of the Tidy Miss,
To feed wife and child he had to do this.
He fished the wild seas, to make the ends meet,
Joined by four others, who made up the fleet.
Battered down by fortunes cruel,
Frank battled on like many a poor fool.
Each day he sat and mended nets,
To fend off the tallyman, and his mounting debts.
His lovely wife Maggie, had borne seven barins,
In their humble croft dwelling, among the Cairns.
Within her womb now twins did thrive,
Two more mouths to be fed and be kept alive.
Depressed and despairing, no fish could be caught,
With doubt and with fear his poor life is fraught.
Dark fog is outside and also within,
Fearing the workhouse, a human waste bin.
His last known night, was passed at the inn,
Stoked up with ale and with plenty of gin.
This was the last time that old Frank was seen,
Seeking a release for just the time being.
Around ten o’clock as the mist grew thick,
Looking out of the window Maggie missed not a trick.
Her heart it had told her, that all was not right,
He would not be home, this dreary dark night.
A wise Scottish lady, she rarely was wrong,
Gone was her life on a wisp of a song.
He never came home, not then and not ever,
A life disappeared to the sweet purple heather.
Come every November the folks reminisce,
How could it happen, a tragedy like this?
There now stands a plaque on Killbeg point,
The memory of Frank it serves to anoint.