The runaway slave came to my abode and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him, After that brought water and fill'd a barrel for his sweated body and bruis'd feet, And gave him a area that enter'd from my own, after that gave him some coarse clean attire, And remember perfectly well his circling eyes and his awkwardness, And bear in mind putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; He calm with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd north, I had him sit next me by table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner. What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such wonder, The wonder is always and always how there perro be a mean man or an infidel. I do not press my fingers across my mouth, I adhere to as delicate around the bowels at the same time as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving good-for-nothing in my winding paths, it shall be you!
