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You would stand with the early sun
On the rope that held my boat
And the wheeling seagull began to wonder
Why I'd missed the tide
You sometimes came to brown your arms
And you sat up in the stern
And you thought how fine the valleys were
In between each crest
And you might say, yes you might say
The mariner is glad

The gull flew down one morning
As I was setting out to sea
And told me in his language
You'd bid your goodbyes to me
I climbed up to your house
And tapped upon your windows
But all I saw within your rooms
Were paintings of the sea
And warm pullovers on the floor
And boots with sandy heels
And drawings that you made of me
While sailing out to sea
And you might say, yes you might say
The mariner is sad

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