Harper’s Weekly, September 4, 1869, page 574 (Poem)
Why, Pat, you goney, what’s the row

You’re making all the day, Sir?

Let Ki Hi pass, you silly fool—

He’ll not be in your way, Sir.

Leave it to me to trot him out,

And show you all his tricks, Sir;

That done—why, you can leave off work,

And only carry bricks, Sir.

And you, John Bull, don’t strain yourself,

And of Hold Hengland prate, Sir;

For when he comes, depend upon’t,

You’ll sit in royal state, Sir;

Drink ‘arf-and’arf, and read the news,

And tell us all the figgers—

How, down in Abysynny there,

You British whipped the niggers.

Monsieur Crapaud, my friend in red,

You need not feel alarmed, Sir;

The glory of the "nation grande"

Will not the least be harmed, Sir.

Of equal power and equal rights

You yet may see the day, Sir;

But till that period comes round

Let Ki Hi work away, Sir.

And you, my blue-eyed plodding coz,

Just landed from the Rhine, Sir,

You’ll soon have leisure on your hands

To sing away your time, Sir;

For in the shops or on the land

He’ll do your work quite clever,

While you lay off, and treat the vrow,

And lager swill forever.

Ha! Sambo—you there—hi, this way!

I want a word with you, Sir;

So come along, my dusky friend,

And bring your banjo too, Sir.

Quick—heel and toe—and reel it off;

I vow, you’re quite amazing.

Now sun yourself the rest o’ the day,

While Ki Hi does the slaving.

For by Jerusalem I swar,

By all the laws of nations,

He’s just the motive pow’r we want

That don’t need any rations.

A little rice, a little salt,

And work up to the handle;

To leave such dicker loose around

Would be a mighty scandal.

So, Ki Hi, bring your spade and pick,

And, while you dig or strike, Sir,

I’ll sit and whittle all the day,

And fix things as I like, Sir.

Then, first, we’ll turn the country round—

The folks is always jangling—

And make the Southern eend the North

To stop their cussid wrangling.

Next, we might level off the farm

(When you’ve had time to rally)

And dump the Rocky Mountains down

In Mississippi’s valley.

But, first and foremost of the hull,

You bet, I’ve got the notion,

We’ll build a bridge from Cubey hum

Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Harper’s Weekly, September 4, 1869, page 574 (Poem)

This site is brought to you by…
Website and all Content © 1998-1999 HarpWeek, LLC
Please report problems to webmaster@harpweek.com