[From Manxiana, 1870]
Peter Grey is coming along,
Singing all through the street,
His clothes all tatter'd, his head all bare,
Dancing along to Kirk Michael fair,
No stocking or shoe on his feet.
Peter Grey is hurrying along,
No weather e'er stops his way,
Be it hail or snow, or wintry storm,
You'll see his tall cadaverous form
Haste to the fair away.
Peter Grey is dancing along,
Wandering and wandering on,
All know him, none hinder him where he goes,
Hailing his friends and numerous foes,
With a smile or a Tom-fool pun.
Peter Grey comes whistling along,
All know him of olden time,
For he claims of all his bit and his bite,
None dare deny him, he's a fury in fight,
And madness might end in a crime.
Peter Grey comes singing along,
None know him no one at all;
Oh ! could we but see his softening brain,
And trace its origin pain by pain,
A lesson 'twould be for us all.
Peter Grey comes running along,
Treat him with but a kind look,
God's blessing he'll give, and a thousand thanks,
Your tears should fall amongst his pranks,
As you think of him and the Book.
Peter Grey comes wandering on,
The Book that tells how he
Your brother still is, tho' out of his mind,
An idiot pauper, whom none can bind,
A fury when cross'd is he.
Peter Grey comes begging along;
Give him a copper to-day,
And pray that an asylum soon will rise
To shelter him ere of fury he dies,
Found dead on the Queen's highway.
Peter Grey comes houseless along,
On the Isle there are many more.
Oh, build them asylums, ye House of Keys
Ye know not the horrors of mind diseased,
No cottage, on hill, or shore.
Peter Grey comes jabbering along,
Running away from the fair;
Guard him, police, to home in his cell,
For Drink has entombed him in its hell;
Of his murdering arm beware.
Peter Grey comes mournfully on.
The horrors, ob, who can count,
Of the Isle of Man idiots of every kind,
Whose raging madness, idiot mind,
Wandering o'er vale and mount?
Peter Grey comes smiling along,
Happier some say than those
Of pauper class by pauper homed ;
Or rather I'd say entombed
'Midst darkness, demon foes.
Peter Grey comes madly along,
Oh, chain him not up for awhile.
It makes me mad to think of all
Already chained up in rnisery's pall
In the wild moors of your Isle.
Peter Grey comes roving along;
Treat him well and he'll do ;
But, chain him in silent dungeon, where
Hope never comes, but black despair,
He'll rot, as hundreds do.
Peter Grey comes praying along;
A christian brother still is he;
God made him, heart, and soul, and brain.
He knows his every want and pain,
His madness mystery.