There was a poor man of Jamaica,
He open'd a shop as a baker;
   The nice biscuits he made
   Procured him much trade,
With the little black boys of Jamaica.

A lively old man at Madeira,
Thought that wine of the heart was a cheerer,
   He often would say,
   "Put the bottle this way --
Absent friends! -- and I wish they were nearer."

There was and old merchant at Malta,
Very cross but too stubborn to alter,
   He flew in a rage
   With poor Dr. Sage,
Who attended sick people at Malta.