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70 christy's |
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And runs home, wid his eyes both black, a kickin
up a noise. Den de willin falls in lub, and courts Miss Dinah
Slue. He raves and swears and tears his hair, and jump
about Jim Crow, 'Till his daddy punches well his head, jist like a piece ob wood; Den he's cured ob dat, which, you must own, does
him a deal ob good. He can't go for a soger—cos his colour, it is black; So he looks for work, and arterwards he tinks he'll
drive a hack ; # But de horses run away and gib him lots ob trouble; And den wid him, oh, sad to tell! busts reputation's
bubble. He can't be justice neider, as Massa Shakspeare says, Cos a nigger's judgment wont go down wid de publio
now-a-days, But he raises his mouse-catchers, and goes cook on
board a ship But de biler busts, ana ne escapes, afore he went
fust trip. Now de darkey's gettin old—good gTacious, what '11
he do? His head is coming from his hat, his toes press from
his shoe; So he gets some blackin and a brush, and sets down
on de walk, To black de boots; but Star's come on, and make
him walk his chalk. Den he gets so old dat he can't see — his wool is all
gray, „ And de white folks turn dere noses up, and push
him out de way, 'Till he crawls into seme cellar, in de neighborhood
close by, Looks about for a soft piece ob board, and lays him
down to die. |
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