Ah! the poor little blackamoor, see there he goes,
And the blood gushes out from his half frozen toes,
And his legs are so thin you may see the very bones,
As he goes shiver, shiver, on the sharp cutting stones.
He was once a negro boy, and a merry boy was he,
Playing outlandish plays, by the tall palm tree;
Or bathing in the river, like a brisk water rat,
And at night sleeping sound, on a little bit of mat.
But there came some wicked people, and they stole him far away,
And then good bye to palm-tree tall, and merry merry play;
For they took him from his house and home, and ev’ry body dear,
And now, poor little negro boy, he’s come a begging here.
And fie upon the wicked folks who did this cruel thing!
I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the king;
For to steal him from his house and home must be a crying sin,
Though he was a little negro boy, and had a sooty skin.