Or even yet, pause, reconsider terms I’ll offer you no more,
Tell me truly, I implore you, for the last time I conjure you,
If good wages I ensure you, and clothes the best you ever wore,
Will you work three days in seven, at tasks far lighter than of yore?
Only three short days in seven—labour light and payment sure?”
Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, nigger man,” I said upstarting,
“Get you gone to where you came from, let me see your face no more.
Quick, vamose, cut dirt—skedaddle—seek some far-off, distant shore,
Haste, relieve me of that visage—darken not again my door,