94. [song of the negro Boatmen.]
Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he comeTo set de people free;
An‘ massa tink it day ob doom,
An‘ we ob jubilee.
De Lord, dat heap de Red Sea waves,
He jus' as ‘trong as den;
He say de word — we las' night slaves,
To-day de Lord's freemen.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an‘ corn;
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
Ole massa on he trabbles gone;
He leab de land behind;
De Lord's breff blow him furder on,
Like corn-shuck in de wind.
We own de hoe, we own de plow,
We own de hands dat hold;
We sell de pig, we sell de cow,
But nebber chile be sold.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an‘ corn;
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
We pray de Lord; he gib us signs
Dat some day we be free;
De Norf-wind tell it to de pines,
De wild duck to de sea;
We tink it when de church-bell ring,
We dream it in de dream;
De rice-bird mean it when he sing,
De eagle when he scream.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an‘ corn;
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
We know de promise nebber fail,
An‘ nebber lie de word;
So, like de ‘postles in de jail,
We waited for de Lord;
An‘ now He open ebery door,
An‘ throw away de key;
He tink we lub Him so before,
We lub Him better free.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
He'll gib de rice an‘ corn;
So,nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
So sing our dusky gondoliers;
And with a secret pain,
And smiles that seem akin to tears,
We hear the wild refrain.
We dare not share the negro's trust,
Nor yet his hopes deny;
We only know that God is just,
And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face,
Flame-lighted, ruder still:
We start, to think that hapless race
Must shape our good or ill;
That laws of changeless justice bind
Oppressor with oppressed;
And close as sin and suffering joined,
We march to fate abreast.
Sing on, poor hearts! your chants shall be
Our sign of blight or bloom--
The Vala-song of Liberty,
Or death-rune of our doom!
--Atlantic Monthly.