That dark skins must now take precedence of white.
That little dark baby could never have vices
Like those which degrade us in civilised life;
And though he may p'raps chop his father in slices,
His country has customs that legalise strife.
But, really—what humbugs call—Civilisation,
Seems spreading everywhere under the skies,
That soon, I suppose, we shall not have a nation
To furnish a savage to gladden our eyes.