Where Blackmoor was, the road that led
       &nbsp To Bath, she could not show,
Nor point the sky that overspread
       &nbsp Towns ten miles off or so.

But that Calcutta stood this way,
       &nbsp Cape Horn there figured fell,
That here was Boston, here Bombay,
       &nbsp She could declare full well.

Less known to her the track athwart
       &nbsp Froom Mead or Yell'ham Wood
Than how to make some Austral port
       &nbsp In seas of surly mood.

She saw the glint of Guinea's shore
       &nbsp Behind the plum-tree nigh,
Heard old unruly Biscay's roar
       &nbsp In the weir's purl hard by . . .

"My son's a sailor, and he knows
       &nbsp All seas and many lands,
And when he's home he points and shows
       &nbsp Each country where it stands.

"He's now just there—by Gib's high rock -
       &nbsp And when he gets, you see,
To Portsmouth here, behind the clock,
       &nbsp Then he'll come back to me!"