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Our footsteps o'er the Doggerland, |
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chased retreating ice and snow, |
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left us breathing high and dry, |
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Land's End to Scapa Flow. |
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The seeds of Albion, wind-blown |
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free, scattered to the moors, |
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dormant beneath the the soggy heath |
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where stouter oaks will grow. |
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All across the Doggerland |
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All across before the tides |
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Across with boar and elk and wolves |
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Take the high lands near and wide |
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Strike with rock and flint and |
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bone, follow trail and hoof. |
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Onwards to another place, a place to raise a roof. |
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And these four walls to shelter |
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us upon this blessed plot: |
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This earth, this realm, this England |
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- island, alone, aloof. |
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All across the Doggerland |
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All across before the tides |
|
Across with boar and elk and wolves |
|
Take the high lands near and wide |
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Back across the Doggerland, Costa villa overkill. |
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Warm farmhouses in Tuscany |
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challenge Winter's will. |
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We pensionable, geriatric, |
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sun-creased wrinklies long |
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for this earth, this realm, this |
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England, a burial ground to fill. |
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All across the Doggerland |
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All across before the tides |
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Across with luggage, kids and sunscreen |
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Melted mortgage, dreams that died |
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All across the Doggerland |
|
All across before the tides |
|
Across with boar and elk and wolves |
|
Take the high lands near and wide |