'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died:
Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide:
The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore,
They had heard strange voices amid the roar.
"Out with the boat there," someone cried,--
"Will he never come? We shall lose the tide:
His berth is trim and his cabin stored,
He's a weary long time coming aboard."
The old man struggled upon the bed:
He knew the words that the voices said;
Wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim,
"He was dead! He was dead when I buried him."
Hark yet again to the devilish roar!
"He was nimbler once with a ship on shore;
Come, come, old man, 'tis a vain delay,
We must make the offing by break of day."
Hard was the struggle, but at the last
With a stormy pang old Mawgan passed,
And away, away, beneath their sight,
Gleamed the red sail at pitch of night.