The Liberty Minstrel Part 8

A n.o.ble man of sable brow Came to my humble cottage door, With cautious, weary step and slow, And asked if I could feed the poor; He begged if I had ought to give, To help the panting fugitive.

I told him he had fled away From his kind master, friends, and home; That he was black--a slave astray, And should return as he had come; That I would to his master give The straying villain fugitive.

He fell upon his trembling knee And claimed he was a brother man, That I was bound to set him free, According to the gospel plan; And if I would G.o.d's grace receive, That I must help the fugitive.

He showed the stripes his master gave, The festering wound--the sightless eye, The common badges of the slave, And said he would be free, or die; And if I nothing had to give, I should not stop the fugitive.

He owned his was a sable skin, That which his Maker first had given; But mine would be a darker sin, That would exclude my soul from heaven: And if I would G.o.d's grace receive, I should relieve the fugitive.

I bowed and took the stranger in, And gave him meat, and drink, and rest, I hope that G.o.d forgave my sin, And made me with that brother blest; I am resolved, long as I live, To help the panting fugitive.

AM I NOT A MAN AND BROTHER?

Words by A.C.L. Air--"Bride's Farewell."

[Music]

Am I not a man and brother?

Ought I not, then, to be free?

Sell me not one to another, Take not thus my liberty.

Christ our Saviour, Christ our Saviour, Died for me as well as thee.

Am I not a man and brother?

Have I not a soul to save?

Oh, do not my spirit smother, Making me a wretched slave: G.o.d of mercy, G.o.d of mercy, Let me fill a freeman's grave!

Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though thou long hast groaned a slave, Bound with cruel cords and tether From the cradle to the grave!

Yet the Saviour, yet the Saviour, Bled and died all souls to save.

Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though we long have told thee nay: And are bound to aid each other, All along our pilgrim way.

Come and welcome, come and welcome, Join with us to praise and pray!

Am I not a Sister?

BY A.C.L.

Am I not a sister, say?

Shall I then be bought and sold In the mart and by the way, For the white man's l.u.s.t and gold?

Save me then from his foul snare, Leave me not to perish there!

Am I not a sister say, Though I have a sable hue!

Lo! I have been dragged away, From my friends and kindred true, And have toiled in yonder field, There have long been bruised and peeled!

Am I not a sister, say?

Have I an immortal soul?

Will you, sisters, tell me nay?

Shall I live in l.u.s.t's control, To be chattled like a beast, By the Christian church and priest?

Am I not a sister, say?

Though I have been made a slave?

Will you not then for me pray, To the G.o.d whose power can save, High and low, and bond and free?

Toil and pray and vote for me!

YE HERALDS OF FREEDOM.

Music by Kingsley.

[Music]

Ye heralds of freedom, ye n.o.ble and brave, Who dare to insist on the rights of the slave; Go onward, go onward, your cause is of G.o.d, And he will soon sever the oppressor's strong rod.

The finger of slander may now at you point, That finger will soon lose the strength of its joint; And those who now plead for the rights of the slave, Will soon be acknowledged the good and the brave.

Though thrones and dominions, and kingdoms and powers, May now all oppose you, the victory is yours; The banner of Jesus will soon be unfurled, And he will give freedom and peace to the world.

Go under his standard and fight by his side, O'er mountains and billows you'll then safely ride.

His gracious protection will be to you given, And bright crowns of glory he'll give you in heaven.

I would not live alway.

BY PIERPONT.

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay, Where I must bear the burden and heat of the day: Where my body is cut with the lash or the cord, And a hovel and hunger are all my reward.

I would not live alway, where life is a load To the flesh and the spirit:--since there's an abode For the soul disenthralled, let me breathe my last And repose in thine arms, my deliverer, Death!--

I would not live alway to toil as a slave: Oh no, let me rest, though I rest in my grave; For there, from their troubling, the wicked shall And, free from his master, the slave be at peace.

OUR PILGRIM FATHERS.