Published 1808.

Lyrics: Matthew Gregory Lewis

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

Then on land he sprang so lightly,
While with mingl'd hopes and fears
Rais'd the maid her head, and brightly
Beam'd her blue eyes through her tears;
Left expos'd to want and danger,
Friendless on a foreign shore,
"Ah!", she said, "you vainly stranger,
Kindly tell me, weep no more".

"Far from home, an exile roving,
Where shall now my shelter be?
Lost each friend, so lov'd, 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,
Where my shelter thine shall be;
Mark my bosom swell'd by pity,
There's an heart which feels for thee.
All my wealth I here surrender;
'Tis not gems nor shining ore:
'Tis an heart warm, honest, tender;
Take it, sweet, and weep no more".

Gently t'wards 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 though many a year is o'er,
Does he bless the hour he told her,
"Prithee sweetheart, weep no more"'