And were jollificating away at the board

Of this Irish hospitality-lord,

When up

rode another guest with his man;

What shall they do with them?-just what they can!

VII.

My lord, he finds a place for his friend,

On a sofa long neglected—

But the vassals now puzzle their brains without end,

And still they have not detected

A hole or corner wherein to cast

Dennis-the man of the boy that came last.

Soft, soft!

They have it now,

There's the little hayloft

Any how;

And Dennis can lay

Along with the hay,

Where he could n't be found if they sought for him;

And there, an' he please,

He can double his knees,

If the place should appear too short for him!

VIII.

Eh! what! ho!

Why, here's a go;

There's another gentleman's horse-gee wo!
Those at the door they hear the stop of him,
And well they know the rider a-top of him;
The stalwart, hale, magnificent figure,

Of my Lord's American cousin ;

And with him a black "Remarkable Nigger,"

One of a hundred dozen.

IX.

Here the bewildered servants shout,

"What shall we do with Smutty-Snout?

P

What shall we do with Sambo?"

They know my Lord's cousin is safe for a perch,

And they dare not leave his man in the lurch:
Master and swell

Must be treated well,

Although they are not Arcades ambo!

X.

At last they bethink them, as well as they're able, Again of the hayloft over the stable;

For they deemed of the Nigger, that glad he Might be, in default of better resource,

To sleep over the stable and over the horse,

In the hay, along with Paddy!

The matter is very soon settled and done;

Two must sleep in the hayloft, instead of one!

XI.

My Lord is full of revelry,

His guests have had their sport;

And in his jolly sporting-box

Old Bacchus holds his court:

He holds his court where nobles dine,

And quaff until they fall;

But his whiskey hollow beats his wine,

Within the servants' hall.

There the punch, in little space,

Gets punching every head!

And the Nigger of the servant race
Is put the first to bed.

But Dennis, who that very night

His bedfellow must be,

Still lingers at the burning jug,

Till who so drunk as he!

He has fairly drunk one bottle out;
He surely cannot walk :

But as the bottle 's void, his boon

Companions burn the cork,

And Othello did not look more black

When he made love in Venice,

Than did somebody I know when that cork Had blacked the face of Dennis.

They blacked his eyes, his nose, his chin,

His hair without, his ears within,

Until he cut a figure

Which they thought comely, to lie soft

Upon the hay within the loft,

Beside a brother nigger!