3
Still do I hear their screams for aid,
Which to give was past man’s power,
I saw in the earth their coffins laid,
Well! my heart of marble must be made,
That it did not break that hour.
Poor soul, your tale of many woes
Brings tears into my eyes;
But think you that such ills arose,
Because you saw your fancied foes,
Three Ravens by you fly.
No doubt since these fantastic fears
Has thus possess’d your head,
You firmly believe that Ghosts appear,
And that dead men leave the blood-stain’d bier,
To haunt the Murderer’s bed.
Believe it! Master, well I may;—
Now mark what I relate,
For gospel-true are the words I say,
When I swear that for three weeks and a day
A Ghost was my own shipmate.
My cash run low, no flesh, no flip,
And the times were hard to live,
So I e’en resolved to make a trip
For slaves on board a Guinea Ship,
Which crime may heav’n forgive.
