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