Well, well, I declar'! I is sorry.
He 's 'ceasted, yo' say, Marse Joe?—
Dat gent'man down in New Orleans,
Whar writ 'bout'n niggers so,
An' tole, in all dat poetry
You read some time lars' year,
'Bout niggers, an' 'coons, an' 'possums,
An' ole times, an' mules an' gear?
Jes' name dat ag'in, seh, please, seh;
Destricution 's de word yo' said?
Dat signifies he wuz mons'us po',
Yo' say?—want meat and bread?
Hit mout: I never knowed him
Or hearn on him, 'sep' when you
Read me dem valentines o' his'n;
But I lay you, dis, seh 's, true—
Dat he wuz a rael gent'man,
Bright fire dat burns, not smokes;
An' ef he did die destricute,
He war n't no po'-white-folks.
Dat gent'man knowed 'bout niggers,
Heah me! when niggers wuz
Ez good ez white-folks mos', seh,
I knows dat thing, I does.
An' he could 'a' tetched his hat, seh,
To me jes' de same ez you;
An' folks gwine to see what a gent'man
He wuz, an' I wuz, too.
He could n' 'a' talked so natchal
'Bout niggers in sorrow an' joy,
Widdouten he had a black mammy
To sing to him 'long ez a boy.
An' I think, when he tole 'bout black-folks
An' ole-times, an' all so sweet,
Some nigh him mout 'a' acted de ravins
An' gin him a mouf-ful to eat,
An' not let him starve at Christmas,
When things ain't sca'ce nowhar—
Ef he hed been a dog, young Marster,
I 'd 'a feeded him den, I 'clar'!
But wait! Maybe Gord, when thinkin'
How po' he 'd been himself,
Cotch sight dat gent'man scufflin',
An' 'lowed fur to see what wealf
Hit mout be de bes' to gin him,
Ez a Christmas-gif', yo' know;
So he jes' took him up to heaven,
Whar he earn' be po' no mo'.
An' jes' call his name ag'in, seh.
How?—IRWIN RUSSELL—so?
I 'se gwine fur to tell it to Nancy,
So ef I 'd furgit, she 'd know.
An' I hopes dey 'll lay him to sleep, seh,
Somewhar, whar de birds will sing
About him de live-long day, seh,
An' de flowers will bloom in Spring.
An' I wish, young Marster, you 'd meek out
To write down to whar you said,
An' sey, dyar 's a nigger in Richmond
Whar 's sorry Marse Irwin 's dead.