my fair strong youth,

Veiling mine eyes from the blessed light, and closing my heart to truth. Pity me, Lord, whose mercy passeth my wildest thought,

For I never dreamed of the bitter end of the work my hands had wrought!

In the sweet morn's flush and fragrance I wandered o'er dewy meadows,

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!-it come so awful hebby,

De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;

De people all wuz drownded out-'cep' Noah an' de critters,

An' men he'd hired to work de boat-an' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin';

De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin';

De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin',

You c'u'd n't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet,

Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'd n't stan' de racket;

An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it,

An' soon he had a banjo made - de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin; An' fitted in a proper neck—'t wuz berry long an' tap'rin';

He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;

An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin';

De ha'r 's so long an' thick an' strong, - des fit fur banjo-stringin';

Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner graces;

An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, 't wuz "Nebber min' de wedder," She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder;

Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers;

An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers !

Now, sence dat time—it's mighty strange - dere's not de slightes' showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin';

An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em

Fur whar you finds de nigger — dar's de banjo an' de 'possum !

TO ENGLAND

Now England lessens on my sight;
The bastioned front of Wales,
Discolored and indefinite,

There like a cloud-wreath sails:
A league, and all those thronging bills
Must sink beneath the sea;

But while one touch of Memory thrills,
They yet shall stay with me.

I claim no birthright in yon sod,
Though thence my blood and name;
My sires another region trod,
Fought for another fame;