The Liberty Minstrel | Page 3

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 its pleasures,?Afric's coast I left forlorn;?To increase a stranger's treasures,?O'er the raging billows borne.?Christian people bought and sold me,?Paid my price in paltry gold:?But though slave they have enrolled me?_Minds_ are never to be sold.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell me,?Is there one who reigns on high??Has he bid you buy and sell me,?Speaking from his throne--the sky??Ask him, if your knotted scourges,?Matches, blood-extorting screws,?Are the means that duty urges?Agents of his will to use.
Hark! he answers--wild tornadoes,?Strewing yonder sea with wrecks,?Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,?Are the voice with which he speaks.?He, foreseeing what vexations?Afric's sons should undergo,?Fixed