Classic Poem

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.
Away with paper, pen, and ink —
— My daughter! O, my daughter!