- der what keeps Thomas; he should have been here with
the team.
Enter Thomas, L.
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.
Jones. Do let us hear the song.
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."
Air—"Wait for the Wagon."
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.
Chorus.—No one hears the whistle, &c.
