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 ai n'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.
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