The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[57]
     Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
     Faint with toil, and racked with pain,
To their cheerless homes again,
     There no brother's voice shall greet their;
There no father's welcome meet 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.
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, 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;
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, gone,—sold and gone,
     To the rice-swamp dank and lone,