Of Bishop Coleridge’s new black beadles.
Full of this fright,
With broken peace and broken English choking,
As black as any raven and as croaking,
Pompey rushed in upon his master’s sight,
Plump’d on his knees, and clasp’d his sable digits,
Thus stirring Curiosity’s sharp fidgets—
“O Massa!—Massa!—Colonel!—Massa Case,—
Not go to Ireland!—Ireland dam bad place;
Dem take our bloods—dem Irish—every drop—