So every shrill and long-drawn note
Like bubbles breaks in me?"

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,