CONSOLATION
25
De harmless tabby o’ de house
Plays kindly wid de frightened mouse,
Till, when it nearly loses dread,
Good Lard! de little thing is dead.
So wid de man, toy of a Will
E’er playin’ with him to its fill,
To-day alive, to-morrow slain,—
Thus all our pleasure ends in pain.
Where’er I roam, whate’er the clime,
I’ll never know a happier time;
I seemed as happy as could be,
When—everything was torn from me.
De fateful day I ’member still,
De final breakin’ o’ my will,
Again de sayin’ o’ good-bye,
My poor heart’s silent wailin’ cry;
My life, my soul, my all be’n gone,
And ever since I am alone.
