ONE MOURNER

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.