Breathing the stale and stuffy air
          Of office or consulting room,
     Our thoughts will wander back to where
          We heard the low Atlantic boom,

     And, creaming underneath our screw,
          We watched the swirling waters break,
     Silver filagrees on blue
          Spreading fan-wise in our wake.

     Cribbed within the city's fold,
          Fettered to our daily round,
     We'll conjure up the haze of gold
          Which ringed the wide horizon round.

     And still we'll break the sordid day
          By fleeting visions far and fair,
     The silver shield of Vigo Bay,
          The long brown cliff of Finisterre.

     Where once the Roman galley sped,
          Or Moorish corsair spread his sail,
     By wooded shore, or sunlit head,
          By barren hill or sea-washed vale

     We took our way.   But we can swear,
          That many countries we have scanned,
     But never one that could compare
          With our own island mother-land.

     The dream is o'er.   No more we view
          The shores of Christian or of Turk,
     But turning to our tasks anew,
          We bend us to our wonted work.

     But there will come to you and me
          Some glimpse of spacious days gone
            by,
     The wide, wide stretches of the sea,
          The mighty curtain of the sky,