John Nicol (1833–1894)

GOOD night, my love, good night!

Farewell! the breeze is sighing

Along the harbour height;

The fleecy clouds are flying

Beneath Astarte’s light.

My mariners are crying

‘In favouring winds away!

And I, my love denying,

Must cleave th’ Aegean spray.

The song that the sea is singing

On the bay is tender and bright:

The bark like a bird is springing

And speeding from thy sight:

And a tune in my head is ringing

That thrills my heart for flight

Across the waves—soon winging

Return to thee, and bringing

Treasures for thy delight.

Good night, my love! good night!