I OFTEN wonder whether you Think sometimes of that Bishop,who From black but balmy RumtiFoo Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p'r'aps may bring Remembrance of the man I sing Today,by simply mentioning That PETER was his name.
Remember how that holy man Came with the great Colonial clan To Synod,called PanAnglican;And kindly recollect How,having crossed the ocean wide,To please his flock all means he tried Consistent with a proper pride And manly selfrespect.
He only,of the reverend pack Who minister to Christians black,Brought any useful knowledge back To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim For "PETER"on the scroll of Fame (For PETER was that Bishop's name,As I've already told).
He carried Art,he often said,To places where that timid maid (Save by Colonial Bishops'aid)Could never hope to roam.
The PaynecumLauri feat he taught As he had learnt it;for he thought The choicest fruits of Progress ought To bless the Negro's home.
And he had other work to do,For,while he tossed upon the Blue,The islanders of RumtiFoo Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear They learnt to say,"I do not care,"
Though they,of course,were well aware How folks,who say so,end.
Some sailors,whom he did not know,Had landed there not long ago,And taught them "Bother!"also,"Blow!"
(Of wickedness the germs).
No need to use a casuist's pen To prove that they were merchantmen;No sailor of the Royal N.