They perch on my chimneys and crowd
To nest at my knees,
And set their dun chickens to rock on the motherly
Lap of the seas."

"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,
"It sounds very well, but it cannot be right;
This must be a desolate spot of a night,
With nothing to hear but the guillemot's cry,
The sob of the surf and the wind soughing by.
Go inland and get you a cat for your knee
And gather your gossips for scandal and tea,
Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I.

"No amber-eyed tabby may laze
And purr at my feet,
But here in the blue summer days
The seal-people meet.
They bask on my ledges and romp
In the swirl of the tides,
Old bulls in their whiskers and pomp
And sleek little brides.
Yet others come visiting me
Than grey seal or bird;
Men come in the night from the sea
And utter no word.
Wet weed clings to bosom and hair;
Their faces are drawn;
They crouch by the embers and stare
And go with the dawn