Yon poor Negro girl, an exotic plant,
Was torn from her dear native soil,
Reluctantly borne o'er the raging Atlant,
Then brought to Britannia's isle.
Though Fatima's mistress be loving and kind,
Poor Fatima still must deplore;
She thinks on her parents, left weeping behind,
And sighs for her dear native shore.

She thinks on her Zadi, the youth of her heart,
Who from childhood was loving and true,
How he cried on the beach, when the ship did depart!
'Twas a sad everlasting adieu.
The shell-woven gift which he bound round her arm,
The rude seamen unfeelingly tore,
Nor left one sad relic her sorrows to charm,
When far from her dear native shore.

And now, all dejected, she wanders apart,
No friend, save retirement, she seeks,
The sigh of despondency bursts from her heart,
And tears dew her thin sable cheeks.
Poor hard-fated girl, long, long she may mourn!
Life's pleasures to her are all o'er,
Far fled ev'ry hope that she e'er shall return
To revisit her dear native shore.