Know ye the land of molasses, and rum
Emblems of deeds that are done in their clime
Where the cant of the nigger or the beat of his drum
Now melts into humbug, now maddens to crime—
Know ye the land of the cocoa and pine,
Where the trees that would blossom are left to decline
Where those who would toil must bear the attacks
Of those blood-thirsty vipers, Liberty’s Blacks?
Where murder and treason are the fairest of fruit,
And the voice of sedition never is mute