The dying man upon his arm had risen, Ere ceased the Soldier's tale: "She is thy child, Take her," he said; "and may she be to thee, As she to me has been, a daughter true, A child of good, a blessing from on high!" So saying, back he fell. Around his neck Her arms of love the sobbing damsel threw, And kissed him many a time. And then she rose, And flung herself upon the Soldier's breast-- For he's her father too. And many tears, Silent, the old man rained upon her neck.
"O wondrous night!" the dying tar went on, "Who could have thought of this! I am content. The Lord be praised that she has found a friend, Since I must go from her! That night of fire, Our brig of war bore down upon your ship, And sent her boats to save you from the flame. Near you we could not come; so forth I swam, And to your crowded stern I fixed a rope, To take the people off. Back as I slid Along the line, to show them how to come, A child, upheaved upon the billow top, Was borne against my breast; I snatched her up; Fast to my neck she clung; none could I find To claim and take her: she was thus mine own. That night she wore the cross which now she wears. Why need I tell the changes of my life? In war I lost an arm, and then an eye; My other eye went out from sympathy, And home I came a blind and helpless man. But I had still one comforter, my child-- My young breadwinner, too! From wake to wake She led me on, playing her mandolin, Which I had brought her from the south of Spain. She'll tell you all the rest when I am gone. Bury me now in your own burial-place, That still our daughter may be near my dust. And Jesus keep you both!" he said, and died.
They buried him in their own burial-place. And many a flower, heart-planted by that maid And good Old Soldier, bloomed upon his grave. And many a requiem, when the gloaming came, The damsel played above his honoured dust. Not less, but all the more, her heart was knit Unto her own true father. He, the while, How proud was he to give her up his keys, Mistress installed of all his little stores; And introduce her to his flowers, and bees, Making the sea-green honey--all for her; And sit beside her underneath the oak, Listening the story of her bygone life. In turn she made him of her mother tell, And aye a tear dropped on her needlework; And all his wars the old campaigner told. And God was with them, and in peace and love They dwelt together in their happy home.