The Liberty Minstrel | Page 3

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.
[Music]
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 no more are here.
You were the glory of my life,
My blessing and my pride!
I half
forgot the name of slave,
When you were by my side!
Woe for your lot, ye doom'd ones! woe
A seal is on your fate!
And
shame, and toil, and wretchedness,
On all your steps await!
SLAVE GIRL MOURNING HER FATHER.

Parodied from Mrs. Sigourney by G.W.C.
[Music]
They say I was but four years old
When father was sold away;
Yet I
have never seen his face
Since that sad parting day.
He went where
brighter flowrets grow
Beneath the Southern skies;
Oh who will
show me on the map
Where that far country lies?
I begged him, "father, do not go!
For, since my mother died,
I love
no one so well as you;"
And, clinging to his side,
The tears came
gushing down my cheeks
Until my eyes were dim;
Some were in
sorrow for the dead,
And _some_ in love for him.
He knelt and prayed of God above,
"My little daughter spare,
And
let us both here meet again,
O keep her in thy care."
He does not
come!--I watch for him
At evening twilight grey,
Till every shadow
wears his shape,
Along the grassy way.
I muse and listen all alone,
When stormy winds are high,
And think
I hear his tender tone,
And call, but no reply;
And so I've done these
four long years,
Without a friend or home,
Yet every dream of hope
is vain,--
Why don't my father come?
Father--dear father, are you sick,
Upon a stranger shore?--
The
people say it must be so--
O send to me once more,
And let your
little daughter come,
To soothe your restless bed,
And hold the
cordial to your lips,
And press your aching head.
Alas!--I fear me he is dead!--
Who will my trouble share?
Or tell
me where his form is laid,
And let me travel there?

By mother's
tomb I love to sit,
Where the green branches wave;
Good people!
help a friendless child
To find her father's grave.
The Slave and her Babe.

WORDS BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.
"Can a woman forget her sucking child?"
_Air--"Slave Girl mourning her Father."_
O, massa, let me stay, to catch
My baby's sobbing breath;
His little
glassy eye to watch,
And smooth his limbs in death,
And cover him
with grass and leaf,
Beneath the plantain tree!
It is not sullenness,
but grief--
O, massa, pity me!
God gave me babe--a precious boon,
To cheer my lonely heart,
But
massa called to work too soon,
And I must needs depart.
The morn
was chill--I spoke no word,
But feared my babe might die,
And
heard all day, or thought I heard,
My little baby cry.
At noon--O, how I ran! and took
My baby to my breast!
I
lingered--and the long lash broke
My sleeping infant's rest.
I
worked till night--till darkest night,
In torture and disgrace;
Went
home, and watched till morning light,
To see my baby's face.
The fulness from its cheek was gone,
The sparkle from its eye;
Now
hot, like fire, now cold, like stone,
I _knew_ my babe must die.
I
worked upon plantation ground,
Though faint with woe and dread,

Then ran, or flew, and here I found--
See massa, almost dead.
Then give me but one little hour--
O! do not lash me so!
One little
hour--one little hour--
And gratefully I'll go.
Ah me! the whip has
cut my boy,
I heard his feeble scream;
No more--farewell my only
joy,
My life's first gladsome dream!
I lay thee on the lonely sod,
The heaven is bright above;
These
Christians boast they have a God,
And say his name is Love:

O
gentle, loving God, look down!
My dying baby see;
The mercy that
from earth is flown,
Perhaps may dwell with THEE!

THE NEGRO'S APPEAL.
Words by Cowper. Tune--"Isle of Beauty."
[Music]
Forced from home and all