One becomes fond of sea and strand,
Yet even though it breaks my heart
The time has come—you must depart.
Myself an exile from the city,
Its manners decorous and witty,
I yet sought your needs to provide
Despite its luster was denied;
Yet, though life’s darkness glooms with shade,
Why thus conceal my best brocade,
My daughter, whom I cherish so,
And therefore must insist you go.
For it were a great detriment
To be here with the rustics pent,
And my granddaughter, baby mild,
Must grow to be a lady styled.
When you have heard, I rise like smoke,
Do not regret, but your tears choke,
For even as I turn to dust
A father does what father must.
The tears which fall, run copious,
But let them not detain you thus:
The waiting boat, which here lies moored,
Now beckons you, and you must board.