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.