_Mrs. N._ Come, friends, take seats at the table. Thee’ll take seats there. [_To GLEN and MELINDA._] [_All take seats at the table._] Does thee take sugar and milk in thy tea?
_Jones._ I’ll look at your _Tribune_, Uncle Simeon, while you’re eating.
_Mrs. N._ I presume thee’s anxious to get to thy journey’s end?
_Glen._ Yes, madam, we are. I am told that we are not safe in any of the free States.
_Mr. N._ I am sorry to tell thee, that that is too true. Thee will not be safe until thee gets on British soil. I wonder what keeps Thomas; he should have been here with the team.
_Thomas._ All’s ready; and I’ve written the prettiest song that was ever sung. I call it “The Underground Railroad.”
_Mr. N._ Thomas, thee can eat thy breakfast far better than thee can write a song, as thee calls it. Thee must hurry thyself, when I send thee for the horses, Thomas. Here lately, thee takes thy time.
_Thomas._ Well, you see I’ve been writing poetry; that’s the reason I’ve been so long. If you wish it, I’ll sing it to you.
_Mrs. Neal._ Yes, if Thomas has written a ditty, do let us hear it.
_Mr. Neal._ Well, Thomas, if thee has a ditty, thee may recite it to us.
_Thomas._ Well, I’ll give it to you. Remember that I call it, “The Underground Railroad.”
Oh, where is the invention Of this growing age, Claiming the attention Of statesman, priest, or sage, In the many railways Through the nation found, Equal to the Yankees’ Railway under-ground?
_Chorus._—No one hears the whistle, Or rolling of the cars, While negroes ride to freedom Beyond the stripes and stars.
On the Southern borders Are the Railway stations, Negroes get free orders While on the plantations; For all, of ev’ry color, First-class cars are found, While they ride to freedom By Railway under-ground.
Masters in the morning Furiously rage, Cursing the inventions Of this knowing age; Order out the bloodhounds, Swear they’ll bring them back, Dogs return exhausted, Cannot find the track.
Travel is increasing, Build a double track, Cars and engines wanted, They’ll come, we have no lack. Clear the track of loafers, See that crowded car! Thousands passing yearly, Stock is more than par.
_Jones._ Well done! That’s a good song. I’d like to have a copy of them verses.