`Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him;
Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head!
Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' --
No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead.

Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see,
Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest.
Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee,
What did you do for him? -- bad was the best.

Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you;
Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard,
But the poor jockey-boy -- shame on you, shame on you,
`Feed ye, my little ones' -- what said the Lord?

Him ye held less than the outer barbarian,
Left him to die in his ignorant sin;
Have you no principles, humanitarian?
Have you no precept -- `go gather them in?'

. . . . .

Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity,
That name was an oath -- out of many but one --
What did he get from our famed Christianity?
Where has his soul -- if he had any -- gone?

Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it?
What did he know of God's infinite grace?