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He say de word: we las' night slaves;

To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

Ole massa on he trabbels gone;
He leaf de land behind :

De Lord's breff blow him furder on,
Like corn-shuck in de wind.

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,
We'll hab de rice an' corn:

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

We pray de Lord: he gib us signs

Dat some day we be free;

De Norf-wind tell it to de pines,

De wild-duck to de sea;

We tink it when de church-bell ring,
We dream it in de dream;

De rice-bird mean it when he sing,

De eagle when he scream.

De

yam will grow, de cotton blow,

We'll hab de rice an' corn:

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

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,
He 'll gib de rice an' corn:

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

So sing our dusky gondoliers;
And with a secret pain,

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
Must shape our good or ill;

That laws of changeless justice bind
Oppressor with oppressed;

And, close as sin and suffering joined,

We march to Fate abreast.

Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be

Our sign of blight or bloom,

The Vala-song of Liberty,

Or death-rune of our doom!

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U

P from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

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,

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