The Liberty Minstrel. George Washington Clark
Never when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and rack'd with pain,
To their cheerless homes again—
There no brother's voice shall greet them—
There no father's welcome meet them.—Gone, &c. Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood's place of play— From the cool spring where they drank— Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank— From the solemn house of prayer, And the holy counsels there.—Gone, &c. Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Toiling through the weary day, And at night the Spoiler's prey; Oh, that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant's power is o'er, And the fetter galls no more!—Gone, &c. Gone, gone—sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, By the holy love He beareth— By the bruised reed He spareth— Oh, may He, to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known, Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother's love.—Gone, &c.
WHAT MEANS THAT SAD AND DISMAL LOOK?
Words by Geo. Russell. Arranged from "Near the Lake," by G.W.C.
[Listen] [PDF] [Lilypond]
What means that sad and dismal look,
And why those falling tears?
No voice is heard, no word is spoke,
Yet nought but grief appears.
Ah! Mother, hast thou ever known
The pain of parting ties?
Was ever infant from thee torn
And sold before thine eyes?
Say, would not grief thy bosom swell? Thy tears like rivers flow? Should some rude ruffian seize and sell The child thou lovest so? There's feeling in a Mother's breast, Though colored be her skin! And though at Slavery's foul behest, She must not weep for kin. I had a lovely, smiling child, It sat upon my knee; And oft a tedious hour beguiled, With merry heart of glee. That child was from my bosom torn, And sold before my eyes; With outstretched arms, and looks forlorn, It uttered piteous cries. Mother! dear Mother!—take, O take Thy helpless little one! Ah! then I thought my heart would break; My child—my child was gone. Long, long ago, my child they stole, But yet my grief remains; These tears flow freely—and my soul In bitterness complains. Then ask not why "my dismal look," Nor why my "falling tears," Such wrongs, what human heart can brook? No hope for me appears.
The Slave Boy’s Wish.
BY ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.
I wish I was that little bird,
Up in the bright blue sky;
That sings and flies just where he will,
And no one asks him why.
I wish I was that little brook,
That runs so swift along;
Through pretty flowers and shining stones,
Singing a merry song.
I wish I was that butterfly,
Without a thought or care;
Sporting my pretty, brilliant wings,
Like a flower in the air.
I wish I was that wild, wild deer,
I saw the other day;
Who swifter than an arrow flew,
Through the forest far away.
I wish I was that little cloud,
By the gentle south wind driven;
Floating along, so free and bright,
Far, far up into heaven.
I'd rather be a cunning fox,
And hide me in a cave;
I'd rather be a savage wolf,
Than what I am—a slave.
My mother calls me her good boy,
My father calls me brave;
What wicked action have I done,
That I should be a slave.
I saw my little sister sold,
So will they do to me;
My Heavenly Father, let me die,
For then I shall be free.
THE BEREAVED FATHER.
Words by Miss Chandler. Music by G.W.C.
[Listen] [PDF] [Lilypond]
Ye've gone from me, my gentle ones!
With all your shouts of mirth;
A silence is within my walls,
A darkness round my hearth,
A darkness round my hearth.
Woe to the hearts that heard, unmoved,
The mother's anguish'd shriek!
And mock'd, with taunting scorn, the tears
That bathed a father's cheek.
Woe to the hands that tore you hence,
My innocent and good!
Not e'en the tigress of the wild,
Thus tears her fellow's brood.
I list to hear your soft sweet tones,
Upon the morning air;
I gaze amidst the twilight's gloom,
As if to find you there.
But you no more come bounding forth
To meet me in your glee;
And when the evening shadows fall,
Ye are not at my knee.
Your forms are aye before my eyes,
Your voices on my ear,
And all things wear a thought of you,
But you