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Then arouse ye, brave hearts, to the rescue come on!
The man-stealing army we'll surely put down; They are crus.h.i.+ng their millions, but soon they must yield, For _freemen_ have _risen_ and taken the field.
Then arouse ye! arouse ye! the fearless and free, Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea; Let the north, west, and east, to the sea-beaten sh.o.r.e, _Resound_ with a _liberty triumph_ once more.
ROUSE UP, NEW ENGLAND.
Words by a Yankee. Music by G.W.C.
[Music]
Rouse up, New England! Buckle on your mail of proof sublime, Your stern old hate of tyranny, your deep contempt of crime; A traitor plot is hatching now, more full of woe and shame, Than ever from the iron heart of bloodiest despot came.
Six slave States added at a breath! One flourish of a pen, And fetters shall be riveted on millions more of men!
One drop of ink to sign a name, and slavery shall find For all her surplus flesh and blood, a market to her mind!
A market where good Democrats their fellow men may sell!
O, what a grin of fiendish glee runs round and round thro' h.e.l.l!
How all the d.a.m.ned leap up for joy and half forget their fire, To think men take such pains to claim the notice of G.o.d's ire.
Is't not enough that we have borne the sneer of all the world, And bent to those whose haughty lips in scorn of us are curled?
Is't not enough that we must hunt their living chattels back, And cheer the hungry bloodhounds on, that howl upon their track?
Is't not enough that we must bow to all that they decree,-- These cotton and tobacco lords, these pimps of slavery?
That we must yield our conscience up to glut Oppression's maw, And break our faith with G.o.d to keep the letter of Man's law?
But must we sit in silence by, and see the chain and whip Made firmer for all time to come in Slavery's b.l.o.o.d.y grip!
Must we not only half the guilt and all the shame endure, But help to make our tyrant's throne of flesh and blood secure?
Is water running in our veins? Do we remember still Old Plymouth rock, and Lexington, and glorious Bunker Hill?
The debt we owe our Father's graves? and to the yet unborn, Whose heritage ourselves must make a thing of pride or scorn?
Grey Plymouth rock hath yet a tongue, and Concord is not dumb, And voices from our father's graves, and from the future come; They call on us to stand our ground, they charge us still to be Not only free from chains ourselves, but foremost to make free!
Awake, New England! While you sleep the foes advance their lines; Already on your stronghold's wall their b.l.o.o.d.y banner s.h.i.+nes; Awake! and hurl them back again in terror and despair, The time has come for earnest deeds, we've not a man to spare.
RISE, FREEMEN, RISE.
Music by G.W.C.
[Music]
Rise, freemen rise! the call goes forth, Attend the high command; Obedience to the word of G.o.d, Throughout this guilty land: Throughout this guilty land.
Rise, free the slave; oh, burst his chains, And cast his fetters down; Let virtue be your country's pride, Her diadem and crown.
Then shall the day at length arrive, When all shall equal be, And Freedom's banner, waving high, Proclaim that all are free.
Remember Me.
O Thou, from whom all goodness flows!
I lift my heart to thee; In all my wrongs, oppressions, woes, Dear Lord! remember me.
Afflictions sore obstruct my way, And ills I cannot flee; Lord! let my strength be as my day, And still remember me.
Oppressed with scourges, bonds, and grief, This feeble body see; Oh! give my burdened soul relief, Hear, and remember me.
A BEACON HAS BEEN LIGHTED.
Parody by G.W.C. Air, "Blue-eyed Mary."
[Music]
A beacon has been lighted, Bright as the noonday sun; On worlds of mind benighted, Its rays are pouring down; Full many a shrine of error, And many a deed of shame, Dismayed, has shrunk in terror, Before the lighted flame.
Chorus.
Victorious, on, victorious!
Proud beacon onward haste; Till floods of light all glorious, Illume the moral waste.
Oppression foul has foundered, The demon gasps for breath; His rapid march is downward, To everlasting death.
Old age and youth united, His works shall prostrate hurl, And soon himself, affrighted, Shall hurry from this world.
Victorious, on, victorious, &c.
Proud liberty untiring, Strikes at the monster's heart; Beneath her blows expiring, He dreads her well-aimed dart.
Her blows--we'll pray "G.o.d speed" them, Oppression to despoil; And how we fought for freedom, Let future ages tell.
Victorious, on, victorious, &c.
OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS.
Words by Whittier. "Beat.i.tude," by T. Hastings.
