On me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume
their task of spinning cotton; in which they continued to employ
themselves great part of the night. They lightened their labour by songs,
one of which was composed extempore; for I was myself the subject of it.
It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joined in a sort of
chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally
translated were these:
"The winds roared, and the rains fell.
The poor white man, faint and weary,
Came and sat under our tree.
He has no mother to bring him milk;
No wife to grind his corn."
_Chorus_, "Let us pity the white man:
No mother has he," &c. &c.
Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my
situation, the circumstance was affecting in the highest degree.
I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes.
In the morning I presented my compassionate landlady with two of the four
brass buttons which remained on my waistcoat; the only recompence I could
make her.
July 21st. I continued in the village all this day in conversation with
the natives, who came in crowds to see me; but was rather uneasy towards
evening, to find that no message had arrived from the king; the more so,
as the people began to whisper, that Mansong had received some very
unfavourable accounts of me, from the Moors and Slatees residing at Sego;
who it seems were exceedingly suspicious concerning the motives of my
journey. I learned that many consultations had been held with the king
concerning my reception and disposal; and some of the villagers frankly
told me, that I had many enemies, and must expect no favour.
July 22d. About eleven o'clock, a messenger arrived from the king, but he
gave me very little satisfaction. He inquired particularly if I had
brought any present; and seemed much disappointed when he was told that I
had been robbed of every thing by the Moors. When I proposed to go along
with him, he told me to stop until the afternoon, when the king would
send for me.
[Illustration: NEGRO SONG from Mr. PARK'S TRAVELS.
_THE WORDS BY THE DUTCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE_.
_THE MUSIC BY G.G. FERRARI_.
I.
The loud wind roar'd, the rain fell fast;
The White Man yielded to the blast:
He sat him down, beneath our tree;
For weary, sad, and faint was he;
And ah, no wife, or mother's care,
For him, the milk or corn prepare.
CHORUS.
_The White Man, shall our pity share;
Alas, no wife or mother's care,
For him, the milk or corn prepare._
II.
The storm is o'er; the tempest past;
And Mercy's voice has hush'd the blast,
The wind is heard in whispers low;
The White Man far away must go; -
But ever in his heart will bear
Remembrance of the Negro's care.
