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.