The little Negro.

Ah! the poor little blackamoor, see there he goes,

And the blood gushes out from his half-frozen toes,

And his legs are so thin you may almost see the bones,

As he goes shiver, shiver, all along on the stones.

He was once a negro-boy, and a merry boy was he,

Playing outlandish plays, by the tall palm-tree,

Or bathing in the river like a brisk water-rat,

And at night sleeping sound on a little piece of mat.

But there came some wicked people, and they stole him far away,

And then good bye to palm-tree tall, and merry, merry play;

For they took him from his house and home, and ev’ry body dear,

And now, poor little negro-boy, he’s come a begging here.

And fie upon the wicked folks who did this cruel thing!

I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the king;

For to steal him from his house and home must be a crying sin,

Though he was a little negro-boy, and had a sooty skin.