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, We own de hoe, we own de plough, 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 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, 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, 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 Our sign of blight or bloom, The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom! |