The Liberty Minstrel | Page 2

the heavy burdens and let the oppressed go free."
I announced, sometime since, my intention of publishing such a work. Many have been impatiently waiting its appearance. I should have been glad to have issued it and scattered it like leaves of the forest over the land, long ago, but circumstances which I could not control, have prevented. I purpose to enlarge the work from time to time, as circumstances may require.
Let associations of singers, having the love of liberty in their hearts, be immediately formed in every community. Let them study thoroughly, and make themselves perfectly familiar with both the poetry and the music, and enter into the _sentiment_ of the piece they perform, that they may _impress it_ upon their hearers. Above all things, let the enunciation of every word be _clear_ and _distinct_. Most of the singing of the present day, is entirely too artificial, stiff and mechanical. It should be easy and natural; flowing directly from the soul of the performer, without affectation or display; and then singing will answer its true end, and not only please the _ear_, but affect and improve the _heart_.
To the true friends of universal freedom, the LIBERTY MINSTREL is respectfully dedicated.
G.W. CLARK.
NEW YORK, Oct. 1844.
THE
LIBERTY MINSTREL.
GONE, SOLD AND GONE.
Words by Whittier. Music by G.W. Clark.
[Music]
Gone, gone--sold and gone,?To the rice-swamp dank and lone,?Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,?Where the noisome insect stings,?Where the fever demon strews?Poison with the falling dews,?Where the sickly sunbeams glare?Through the hot and misty air,
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,?There no mother's eye is near them,?There no mother's ear can hear them;?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.
[Music]
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