On the waves the wind was sleeping,
Swift the boat approach'd the land;
There a lovely maid was weeping,
Who can female tears withstand?
Hush'd at once the boatswain's ditty,
Gently dipp'd his silent oar;
While he said in sounds of pity,
Prithee, sweet-heart, weep no more.

Then on land he sprung so lightly,
While with mingled hopes and fears,
Rais'd her head and beaming brightly,
Shone her blue eyes thro' her tears.
Left exposed to want and danger,
Friendless on a foreign shore;
Ah! she said, you vainly, stranger,
Kindly tell me, weep no more.

Far from home in exile roving,
Who shall now my shelter be,
Lost each friend, so loved, so loving,
Now what heart shall feel for me?
Poor Nanine, thy brain is turning,
Poor Nanine, thy heart is sore.
Poor Nanine, thy tears are burning,
Die Nanine, and weep no more.

Mark. he cried, yon distant city,
There my shelter, thine shall be,
Mark my bosom swell'd by pity,
There's a heart wich feels for thee;
All my wealth I here surrender,
'Tis not gems or shining ore,
'Tis a heart, warm, honest, tender,
Take it, 'Sweet, and weep no more.

Gently tow'rds his boat he led her,
Soon it touch'd his native strand,
There his labour cloth'd and fed her,
There he gain'd her heart and hand.
Still with love his eyes behold her,
Still tho'many a year is o'er,
Does he bless the hour he told her,
Prithee, sweetheart, weep no more!