The Bishop of Rum-Ti-Foo Again
I OFTEN wonder whether youThink sometimes of that Bishop, whoFrom black but balmy Rum-ti-FooLast summer twelvemonth came.Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bringRemembrance of the man I singTo-day, by simply mentioningThat PETER was his name.
Remember how that holy manCame with the great Colonial clanTo Synod, called Pan-Anglican;And kindly recollectHow, having crossed the ocean wide,To please his flock all means he triedConsistent with a proper prideAnd manly self-respect.
He only, of the reverend packWho minister to Christians black,Brought any useful knowledge backTo his Colonial fold.In consequence a place I claimFor “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 taughtAs he had learnt it; for he thoughtThe choicest fruits of Progress oughtTo bless the Negro’s home.
And he had other work to do,For, while he tossed upon the Blue,The islanders of Rum-ti-FooForgot their kindly friend.Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—They learnt to say, “I do not care,”Though they, of course, were well awareHow 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 penTo 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 thereThe South Pacific Negroes wearTheir native nothingness.)
He taught them that a Bishop loathesTo 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 foundIn fair condition still).
The Bishop’s eyes with water fill,Quite overjoyed to find them stillObedient 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 SeeHe married PICCADILLILLEE,The youngest of his twenty-three,Tall—neither fat nor thin.(And though the dress he made her donLooks awkwardly a girl upon,It was a great improvement onThe 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-FooA little PETER’ll be on view;And that (if people tell me true)Is like to happen soon.