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There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked and laughed. It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself right in my room, My daughter, O my daughter! Yet by these presents witness all She's welcome fifty times, And comes consigned to Hope and Love And common-meter rhymes. She has no manifest but this, No flag floats o'er the water, She's too new for the British Lloyds— My daughter, O my daughter! Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too! Ring out the lover's moon! Ring in the little worsted socks! Ring in the bib and spoon! Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse! Ring in the milk and water! Away with paper, pen, and ink— My daughter, O my daughter! |