With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days,-- The triumph-note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birds: Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words. SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To 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: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn! Ole massa on he trabbels gone; He leaf de land behind; De Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind. We own de hoe, we own de plough, 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: O 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: O 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' trow 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: O 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 hope 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 chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom,-- The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom! READY PHOEBE CARY [Sidenote: 1861] Loaded with gallant soldiers, A boat shot in to the land, And lay at the right of Rodman's Point With her keel upon the sand. Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, And never a man afraid; When sudden the enemy opened fire From his deadly ambuscade.