Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, A thing to make all Christians sad and shivery, To think of millions of immortal souls Dwelling in bodies black as coals, And living so to speak in Satan's livery! Money the root of evil dross and stuff! But, O! how happy ought the rich to feel, Enough to scour a tribe !* to subscribe While he whose fortune was at best a brittle one. Moved by this logic, or appalled, To persons of a certain turn so proper, The money came when called, In silver, gold, and copper, Presents from "friends to blacks," or foes to whites, "Trifles," and "offerings," and "widow's mites," Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions, With other gifts And charitable lifts, Printed in lists and quarterly transactions. An iron kettle. The Dowager Lady Scannel, A piece of flannel. Rebecca Pope, A bar of soap. The Misses Howeis, The Master Rush's Mr. T. Groom, A stable-broom, And Mrs. Grubb, A tub. Great were the sums collected! And great results in consequence expected. At yearly courts, The Blacks, confound them! were as black as ever! And scourers in the office strong and clever, In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing, The Blacks, confound them! were as black as ever! In fact, in his perennial speech, The Chairman owned the Niggers did not bleach, From being washed and soaped, A circumstance he named with grief and pity; For self and the Committee, By persevering in the present way, And scrubbing at the Blacks from day to day, Lulled by this vague assurance, The friends and patrons of the sable tribe And waited, waited on with much endurance - That Mr. Treasurer must have another! But, spite of pounds or guineas, Of turning to a neutral tint, The plaguy Negroes and their piccaninnies However, nothing dashed By such repeated failures, or abashed, The Court still met; - the Chairman and Directors, The Secretary, good at pen and ink, The worthy Treasurer, who kept the chink, And all the cash Collectors; With hundreds of that class, so kindly credulous, Or Bubble Company could hope to thrive, As pointed out by Butler's tact, Still find a secret pleasure in the act However, in long hundreds there they were, Alas! concluding in the usual strain, That what with everlasting wear and tear, The tubs and pails too shattered to be mended "In fact, the Negroes were as black as ink, But ere the prospect could be made more sunny- And with an eager stammer, thus began, In angry earnest, though it sounded funny: "What! More subscriptions! No- no no,- not I! You have had time-time-time enough to try! They won't come white! then why-why-why- why - why, More money?" "Why!" said the Chairman, with an accent bland, And gentle waving of his dexter hand, Why must we have more dross, and dirt, and dust, More filthy lucre, in a word more gold - Because Humanity declares we must! We've scrubbed the Negroes till we 've nearly killed 'em. We mean to gild 'em!" ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. "Close, close your eyes with holy dread, And weave a circle round him thrice; For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise!"- COLERIDGE. "It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be."- OLD BAllad. A WANDERER, Wilson, from my native land, I guess the features in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint. Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks not physicians in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out moral taints, And call the devil over his own coals. Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibbed : |