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It's of a bold young smuggler,
From Fortune he did sail;
He rode the waves from St. Pierre,
And he never saw the jail.
He filled her up with contraband,
Perfume, smokes, and rum;
He hoped the fog was thick enough,
To make another run.
You can still see the sight on a winter's night,
Of his wake in the light of the moon;
If the wind turns right and you don't take fright,
You can smell that French perfume.
But the Mountie boat was waiting,
As he crawled up Fortune Bay;
And when they hit the spotlight,
It was like the light of day.
He didn't bring her head 'round,
When they told him to heave to;
He opened up the engines,
And he ran for Spanish Room.
You can still see the sight on a winter's night,
Of his wake in the light of the moon;
If the wind turns right and you don't take fright,
You can smell that French perfume.
They said they heard him laughing,
With the Mounties closing in;
His engines screaming murder,
And his face set in a grin.
The seagulls started lifting,
Like an angry banshee choir;
He hit the rocks at 50 kliks,
And the sky lit up with fire.
It's of a bold young smuggler,
From Fortune he did sail;
He rode the waves from St. Pierre,
And he never saw the jail.
And when it's cold and foggy,
On the rocks near Spanish Room;
They say you hear him laughing,
And you smell that French perfume.
You can still see the sight on a winter's night,
Of his wake in the light of the moon;
If the wind turns right and you don't take fright,
You can smell that French perfume.
You can still see the sight on a winter's night,
Of his wake in the light of the moon;
If the wind turns right and you don't take fright,
You can smell that French perfume.
You can smell that French perfume.
