He say de word: we las' night slaves; To-day, de Lord's freemen. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear Ole massa on he trabbels gone; De Lord's breff blow him furder on, We own de hoe, we own de plough, We own de hands dat hold; We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear We pray de Lord: he gib us signs De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; So, like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord: An' now he open ebery door. An' trow away de key; He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear So sing our dusky gondoliers; And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain. We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny ; We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die. Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder still: We start to think that hapless race That laws of changeless justice bind And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast. Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom! P from the meadows rich with corn, Udom in the cool September morn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, |