Part 33 (1/2)

He has a name which can't be brought Within the sphere of metre; But, as he's Peter by report, I'll trot him out as Peter.

I call him mine; but don't suppose That I'm his dad, O reader!

My wife has got a Norman nose-- She reads the tales of Ouida.

I never loved a n.i.g.g.e.r belle-- My tastes are too aesthetic!

The perfume from a gin is--well, A rather strong emetic.

But, seeing that my theme is Pete, This verse will be the neater If I keep on the proper beat, And stick throughout to Peter.

We picked him up the Lord knows where!

At noon we came across him Asleep beside a hunk of bear-- His paunch was bulged with 'possum.

(Last stanza will not bear, I own, A pressure a.n.a.lytic; But bard whose weight is fourteen stone, Is apt to thump the critic.)

We asked the kid to give his name: He didn't seem too willing-- The darkey played the darkey's game-- We tipped him with a s.h.i.+lling!

We tipped him with a s.h.i.+ning bob-- No Tommy Dodd, believe us.

We didn't ”tumble” to his job-- Ah, why did Pete deceive us!

I, being, as I've said, a bard, Resolved at once to foster This mite whose length was just a yard-- This portable impostor!

”This babe”--I spoke in Wordsworth's tone-- (See Wordsworth's ”Lucy”, neighbour) ”I'll make a darling of my own; And he'll repay my labour.

”He'll grow as gentle as a fawn-- As quiet as the blossoms That beautify a land of lawn-- He'll eat no more opossums.

”The child I to myself will take In a paternal manner; And ah! he will not swallow snake In future, or 'goanna'.

”Will you reside with me, my dear?”

I asked in accents mellow-- The n.i.g.g.e.r grinned from ear to ear, And said, ”All right, old fellow!”

And so my Pete was taken home-- My pretty piccaninny!

And, not to speak of soap or comb, His cleansing cost a guinea.

”But hang expenses!” I exclaimed, ”I'll give him education: A 'nig' is better when he's tamed, Perhaps, than a Caucasian.

”Ethnologists are in the wrong About our sable brothers; And I intend to stop the song Of Pickering and others.”

Alas, I didn't do it though!

Old Pickering's conclusions Were to the point, as issues show, And mine were mere delusions.

My inky pet was clothed and fed For months exceeding forty; But to the end, it must be said, His ways were very naughty.

When told about the Land of Morn Above this world of Mammon, He'd shout, with an emphatic scorn, ”Ah, gammon, gammon, gammon!”