Freemen, arouse ye, before it’s too late; Slavery is knocking at every gate, Make good the promise, your early days gave, Boston boys! Boston boys! rescue the slave. SONG OF THE COFFLE GANG. This song is said to be sung by Slaves, as they are chained in gangs, when parting from friends for the far-off South--children taken from parents, husbands from wives, and brothers from sisters. See these poor souls from Africa, Transported to America: We are stolen and sold to Georgia, will you go along with me? We are stolen and sold to Georgia, go sound the jubilee. See wives and husbands sold apart, The children’s screams!--it breaks my heart; There’s a better day a coming, will you go along with me? There’s a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee. O, gracious Lord! when shall it be, That we poor souls shall all be free? Lord, break them Slavery powers--will you go along with me? Lord, break them Slavery powers, go sound the jubilee. Dear Lord! dear Lord! when Slavery’ll cease, Then we poor souls can have our peace; There’s a better day a coming, will you go along with me? There’s a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee. YE HERALDS OF FREEDOM. Ye heralds of freedom, ye noble and brave, Who dare to insist on the rights of the slave, Go onward, go onward, your cause is of God, 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. LAMENT OF THE FUGITIVE SLAVE. “My child, we must soon part to meet no more this side of the grave. You have ever said that you would not die a slave; that you would be a freeman. Now try to get your liberty!”--W. W. BROWN’S NARRATIVE. I’ve wandered out beneath the moon-lit heaven, Lost mother! loved and dear, To every beam a magic power seems given To bring thy spirit near; For though the breeze of freedom fans my brow, My soul still turns to thee! oh, where art thou? Where art thou, mother? I am weary thinking; A heritage of pain and woe Was thine,--beneath it art thou slowly sinking, Or hast thou perished long ago? And doth thy spirit ’mid the quivering leaves above me, Hover, dear mother, near, to guard and love me?