Says I, "It is the mavis
That perches in the tree,
And sings so shrill, and sings so sweet,
When dawn comes up the sea."
At which he fell a-musing,
And fixed his eye on me,
As one alone 'twixt light and dark
A spirit thinks to see.
"England!" he whispers soft and harsh,
"England!" repeated he,
"And briar, and rose, and mavis,
A-singing in yon high tree.
"Ye speak me true, my leetle son,
So—so, it came to me,
A-drifting landwards on a spar,
And grey dawn on the sea.
"Ay, ay, I could not be mistook;
I knew them leafy trees,
I knew that land so witchery sweet,
And that old noise of seas.
"Though here I've sailed a score of years,
And heard 'em, dream or wake,
Lap small and hollow 'gainst my cheek,
On sand and coral break;
"'Yet now,' my leetle son, says I,
A-drifting on the wave,
'That land I see so safe and green,
Is England, I believe.
"'And that there wood is English wood,
And this here cruel sea,
The selfsame old blue ocean
Years gone remembers me.
"'A-sitting with my bread and butter
Down ahind yon chitterin' mill;
And this same Marinere'—(that's me),
'Is that same leetle Will!—
"'That very same wee leetle Will
Eating his bread and butter there,
A-looking on the broad blue sea
Betwixt his yaller hair!'