Mr. N. Thee’ll find it on the table.
Mrs. N. I presume thee’s anxious to get to thy journey’s end?
Glen. Yes, madam, we are. I am told that we are not safe in any of the free States.
Mr. N. I am sorry to tell thee, that that is too true. Thee will not be safe until thee gets on British soil. I wonder what keeps Thomas; he should have been here with the team.
Enter Thomas, L.
Thomas. All’s ready; and I’ve written the prettiest song that was ever sung. I call it “The Underground Railroad.”
Mr. N. Thomas, thee can eat thy breakfast far better than thee can write a song, as thee calls it. Thee must hurry thyself, when I send thee for the horses, Thomas. Here lately, thee takes thy time.
Thomas. Well, you see I’ve been writing poetry; that’s the reason I’ve been so long. If you wish it, I’ll sing it to you.
Jones. Do let us hear the song.
Mrs. Neal. Yes, if Thomas has written a ditty, do let us hear it.