The Fatal Incident

'Tis full six months, cry'd Aladin, Since Emina I've seen, Say, was it not a sorry sin, To leave my fairy queen?

Say, was it not a sorry sin, To force me so away, And make me plod thro' thick and thin, "O'er hills and far away?"

To make me soldier 'gainst my will, And go the lud knows where, And what's alas, more cruel still, To force me from my dear.

'Tis fourteen days since last I heard, Or had one single line, And she's forsa'en me, I'm afraid, But sure the fault's not mine.

We parted at this very stile, I thought I shou'd have dy'd; I took my leave, and all the while, The lovely creature cry'd.

Plague on the man, be who he will, That first the wars began, But may he be more plagued still, That schem'd the Militia plan.

Why shou'd they fix on me forsooth, Who ne'er got drunk and swore, There's Ralph and Hal, aye, and in truth, I cou'd name twenty more.

There's Thomas now, as great a rake As ever trod the lea, He got with barn, at our wake, Poor Sally Mapletree.

Our Joe got drunk and beat his wife, Until she scarce cou'd see, And yet for all, upon my life, They needs must fix on me.

But I'll no longer time delay, With thinking what is past, I'm glad I've got so safe away, To see my love at last.

O how my heart with fancy throbs, To think we soon shall meet; From her the Rofe its colour robs, The Hyacinth its sweet.

I shall be 'sham'd to see her too, In this strange soldier's dress, But if her heart like mine be true, She'll not love me the less.

I'll e'en across the church-yard now, And see my Emina, She lives at foot of yonder brow, Where yon white lambkins play.

Here stands the church, where she and I, Together oft have been, And hope once more, yet ere I die, To go with her again.

When she some morning by my side, O! would it were to-day! Shall go a maid, but turn a bride, Dress'd like the queen of May.

Then luck attend! I'll e'en away, In this same soldier's trim, Desire will not let me stay, To make myself more prim.

Ah me! what name's on yonder stone, That meets my tortur'd sight! 'Tis Emina's! 'tis her's alone!— Then to the world, good night.

For, like the barbed-shafted dart, It plunges thro' my breast, Fast bleeds within, my wounded heart, But here I'll give 'em rest.

O cruel fate! I cannot bear To look upon her grave; Strike me to earth, nor longer spare A love-distracted slave.

Alas! I feel my blood retire, My eyes grow dim apace, The fates have heard my last desire, We'll in the grave embrace.