Oh! hush thee, my baby,
The night is behind us,
And black are the waters
That sparkled so green.
The moon, o er the combers,
Looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows
That rustle between.
Where billow meets billow,
Then soft by thy pillow;
Ah, weary wee flipperling,
Curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee,
Nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms
Of the slow-swinging seas.