The sea-floor like spangles. What news from the West?"
Flashed he of the mitre,
"The night's growing brighter,
There's mist over Annet, but all's clear at sea;
Lit up like a city,
Her band playing pretty,
A big liner's passing. Ay, all's well with me."
Flashed Wolf to Round Island,
"Oh, you upon dry land,
With wild rabbits cropping the pinks at your base,