Poem by Walter Scott

The Dying Gipsy Smuggler

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay,
Wrestling thus with earth and clay?
From the body pass away;-
Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed,
Saints to help thee at thy need;-
Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast
That shall ne'er know waking.

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone,
Earth flits fast, and time draws on,-
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
Day is near the breaking. 

1. The Monks of Bangor’s March
2. On Ettrick Forest’s Mountains Dun
3. Lines Addressed to Ranald Macdonald, Esq., of Staffa
4. The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill
5. The Maid of Isla

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