Never drank, except at market;
Never beat his sturdy mate;
She could hit as hard as he could,
And had just as hard a pate.
Had no care for priest nor parson,
Hope of heaven nor fear of hell;
And in all his views of nature
Held with Comte and Peter Bell.
Healthy, happy, silly, kindly,
Neither care nor toil had he,
Save to work an hour at sunrise,
And then hunt the colibri.
Not a bad man; not a good man:
Scarce a man at all, one fears,
If the Man be that within us
Which is born of fire and tears.
Round the palm-stems, round the creepers,
Flashed a feathered jewel past,
Ruby-crested, topaz-throated,
Plucked the cocorité bast,
Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, [{333}]
Whirred away to build his nest,
Hung at last, with happy humming,
Round some flower he fancied best.
Up then went the rusty muzzle,
’Dat de tenth I shot to-day:’
But out sprang the Indian shouting,
Balked the negro of his prey.
‘Eh, you Señor Trinidada!
What dis new ondacent plan?
Spoil a genl’man’s chance ob shooting?
I as good as any man.
‘Dese not your woods; dese de Queen’s woods:
You seem not know whar you ar,
Gibbin’ yuself dese buckra airs here,
You black Indian Papist! Dar!’
Stately, courteous, stood the Indian;
Pointed through the palm-tree shade:
‘Does the gentleman of colour
Know how yon Pitch Lake was made?’