Robert Stephen Hawker

Mawgan of Melhuach

’T WAS 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,” some one 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 on board.”

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, ’t is 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.