most of them were more in the style of a chant, than what we should term a song.
One of them in particular haunted the Missus like a dream, for it seemed to her like a far-off echo of some long-forgotten tragedy, belonging to the old slavery days:
Jan was far away,
Floating on de sea,
Floating till de sea goes down.
She was a black piccaninny,
Jest from ober Guinea,
Only—two—months—old.
Oh! when dis chile was born,
It was a coloured chile,
Tie her to de rigger ob an oar,
An' feed her on bananas,
Feed her on potatoes,
Feed her till de sun goes down.
Hush! hush! baby!
Where is your pappy?
Ups an' down she goes.
Oh! I buy a lilly waggon,
To rock dis lilly woman,
Rock her till
de
sun
goes
down.
The half-savage air died away in a sort of wail, but what sorrows had originally inspired the quaint melody?—all past now and for-
