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 within my room—
My daughter! O, my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all
She ’s welcome fifty times,
And comes consigned in hope and love—
And common-metre 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.
A way with paper, pen, and ink—
My daughter! O, my daughter!