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.