The scent of the soil is strong on the breeze,
The gulls are many and shrill,
And over the crest of the cresting seas
Is floating a rosy hill;
And right at the base of this filmy shape,
Just clear of the weather shroud,
Say, is it ship, or is it a cape,
Or a hard spot in the cloud?
But hark! from aloft where the seaman swings,
And points with an eager hand,
Then fore and aft the glad cry rings—

Land, ho, land!