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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!

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Eight long miles to go, at the least,
With an early message for the priest.


Dennis stopped not to wake the black,
But he cut away on his errand track,

Cross country, fleet and frisky.
On the road he smoked an ould dhudeen,
And stopped to slake his thirst with shebeen,
Be sure, at the very first shop " he seen,”

In place of a noggin of whiskey.


He cast a sharp eye over all,
And he saw, against the cabin wall,
A bit of ould glass, quicksilver and all

A-sticking just behind it:
Anybody that was n't a dunce
Could see it was part of a looking-glass once ;

But Dennis did n't mind it. And, may be, he would n't have cared to look ; But this 'cute thought in his head he took :-

“I'd like to see, as I slept in the hay,

Along with that Nigger,
What sort of a figure

I cut to-day.”

Poor Dennis ! he approached the glass :
He little knew what had come to pass ;

But soon he saw his error.

His face was black
As chummy's sack,
And he drew back

With terror.
“ Whisht! botheration !--So, I'm in bed,
And that black divil 's here in my stead !
Hurroo! Here, landlord, take your change,
Murder! I must go back at onst, d’ye see:

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