H. DE MARSAN, Publisher, 54 Chatham Street, New-York.
Oh! my name is Pompey Moore,
I’se from ole Virginny shore,
And I neber had any education:
Except now and den a lickin’
Down at de cotton-pickin’,
‘Way down on de ole plantation.
But just list to me,
And you will plainly see
Dat I have got some knowledge,
Though I isn’t any fool,
And I never went to school,
Nor passed into any oder college.
Now, you see it’s bery plain,
Dere was ole Massa Cain
Killed his broder ‘kase he was bigger;
When he see what he had done,
He tried to cut and run,
But was turned, in a crack, to a nigger.
Now, it’s often asked by some:
Whar de niggers dey come from?—
But dis is my calculation:
For, ’tis easy to explain
Dat ole Massa Cain
Was de daddy ob de nigger population. Chorus.
It’s been de way wid some,
Eber since dis world begun,
To bother deir heads about de nigger;
First Bobolition comes to view,
And den Secession, too:
And dis fight is all about de nigger.
You may talk and you may write.
You may work and you may fight,
But what good does eber arise?
You may paint and you may rub,
You may wash and you may scrub,
But a nigger is a nigger till he dies!
Now, white folks, in a trice,
I’ll gib you some advice:
Don’t get mad because it comes from a moke:
Let de Norf and de Souf
Both shut up deir mouf,
And den you will hit de right stroke.
Let Abolition die,
And Secession keep shy,
And de Norf and de Souf shake hands;
And now, white folks, hear me:
Just leave de nigger be;
For, I tell you dey isn’t worth a cent.