Peter the Piccaninny
He has a name which can’t be brought
Within the sphere of metre;
But, as he’s Peter by report,
I’ll trot him out as Peter.
I call him mine; but don’t suppose
That I’m his dad, O reader!
My wife has got a Norman nose—
She reads the tales of Ouida.
I never loved a nigger belle—
My tastes are too aesthetic!
The perfume from a gin is—well,
A rather strong emetic.
But, seeing that my theme is Pete,
This verse will be the neater
If I keep on the proper beat,
And stick throughout to Peter.
We picked him up the Lord knows where!
At noon we came across him
Asleep beside a hunk of bear—
His paunch was bulged with ’possum.
(Last stanza will not bear, I own,
A pressure analytic;
But bard whose weight is fourteen stone,
Is apt to thump the critic.)
We asked the kid to give his name:
He didn’t seem too willing—
The darkey played the darkey’s game—
We tipped him with a shilling!
We tipped him with a shining bob—
No Tommy Dodd, believe us.
We didn’t “tumble” to his job—
Ah, why did Pete deceive us!
I, being, as I’ve said, a bard,
Resolved at once to foster
This mite whose length was just a yard—
This portable impostor!
“This babe”—I spoke in Wordsworth’s tone—
(See Wordsworth’s “Lucy”, neighbour)
“I’ll make a darling of my own;
And he’ll repay my labour.
“He’ll grow as gentle as a fawn—
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Kendall
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