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"Sweet daughter, I have cause to groan,
When misery on my heart is pil'd;
A turk demands thee for his own—
He asks thy father for his child."
"My golden father! give me not—
O, if thou love me—do not so!
I will not leave thy watchman's cot—
Nay! with the turk I dare not go.
"I tell thee what I'll do—I'll make
A coffin, where I will be laid,
And there my seeming rest I'll take,
And thou shalt say—The maid is dead."
And so she did—the moslem o'er
The threshold sprung—"Ill-fated maid!
O God of mercy and of power!
The maid is dead! the maid is dead."
The mourning turk his 'kerchief drew,
And wip'd his wet; and weeging eyes:
And hast thou left me—left me too—
My precious pearl—my gemlike prize?"
