Remember how that holy man Came with the great Colonial clan To Synod, called Pan-Anglican; And kindly recollect How, having crossed the ocean wide, To please his flock all means he tried Consistent with a proper pride And manly self-respect. He only, of the reverend pack Who minister to Christians black, Brought any useful knowledge back To his Colonial fold. In consequence a place I claim For “PETER” on the scroll of Fame (For PETER was that Bishop’s name, As I’ve already told). He carried Art, he often said, To places where that timid maid (Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid) Could never hope to roam. The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught As he had learnt it; for he thought The choicest fruits of Progress ought To bless the Negro’s home. And he had other work to do, For, while he tossed upon the Blue, The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Forgot their kindly friend. Their decent clothes they learnt to tear— They learnt to say, “I do not care,” Though they, of course, were well aware How folks, who say so, end. Some sailors, whom he did not know, Had landed there not long ago, And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!” (Of wickedness the germs). No need to use a casuist’s pen To prove that they were merchantmen; No sailor of the Royal N. Would use such awful terms. And so, when BISHOP PETER came (That was the kindly Bishop’s name), He heard these dreadful oaths with shame, And chid their want of dress. (Except a shell—a bangle rare— A feather here—a feather there The South Pacific Negroes wear Their native nothingness.) He taught them that a Bishop loathes To listen to disgraceful oaths, He gave them all his left-off clothes— They bent them to his will. The Bishop’s gift spreads quickly round; In PETER’S left-off clothes they bound (His three-and-twenty suits they found In fair condition still). The Bishop’s eyes with water fill, Quite overjoyed to find them still Obedient to his sovereign will, And said, “Good Rum-ti-Foo! Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare: I’ll dress myself in cowries rare, And fasten feathers in my hair, And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’” And to conciliate his See He married PICCADILLILLEE, The youngest of his twenty-three, Tall—neither fat nor thin. (And though the dress he made her don Looks awkwardly a girl upon, It was a great improvement on The one he found her in.) The Bishop in his gay canoe (His wife, of course, went with him too) To some adjacent island flew, To spend his honeymoon. Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo A little PETER’ll be on view; And that (if people tell me true) Is like to happen soon.