I might spare myself a description of Trinidad, for the natural features of the place, its forests and gardens, its exquisite flora, the loveliness of its birds and insects, have been described already, with a grace of touch and a fullness of knowledge which I could not rival if I tried, by my dear friend Charles Kingsley. He was a naturalist by instinct, and the West Indies and all belonging to them had been the passion of his life. He had followed the logs and journals of the Elizabethan adventurers till he had made their genius part of himself. In Amyas Leigh, the hero of 'Westward Ho,' he produced a figure more completely representative of that extraordinary set of men than any other novelist, except Sir Walter, has ever done for an age remote from his own. He followed them down into their latest developments, and sang their swan song in his 'Lay of the Last Buccaneer.' So characteristic is this poem of the transformation of the West Indies of romance and adventure into the West Indies of sugar and legitimate trade, that I steal it to ornament my own prosaic pages. THE LAY OF THE LAST BUCCANEER. Oh! England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I'll never see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves beside the Spanish main. There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannon all about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. Then we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folks of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keelhaul them and starve them to the bone. Oh! palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold, And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee To welcome gallant sailors a sweeping in from sea. Oh! sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside which never touched the shore. But Scripture saith an ending to all fine things must be, So the king's ships sailed on Aves and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bull dogs, but they burnt the booms at night, And I fled in a piragua sore wounded from the fight. Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her the poor young thing she died. But as I lay a gasping a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here to beg until I die.