The tyrant’s scorn is vain, In vain the slanderer’s breath, We’ll rush to break the chain, E’en on the jaws of death; Hurrah! hurrah! right on go we, The fettered slave shall yet be free. Right on, in freedom’s name, And in the strength of God, Wipe out the damning stain, And break the oppressor’s rod; Hurrah! Hurrah! right on go we, The fettered slave shall yet be free. THE MAN FOR ME. AIR--The Rose that all are praising. O, he is not the man for me, Who buys or sells a slave, Nor he who will not set him free, But sends him to his grave; But he whose noble heart beats warm For all men’s life and liberty; Who loves alike each human form, O, that’s the man for me. He’s not at all the man for me, Who sells a man for gain, Who bends the pliant, servile knee, To Slavery’s god of shame! But he whose God-like form erect Proclaims that all alike are free To think, and speak, and vote, and act, O, that’s the man for me. He sure is not the man for me Whose spirit will succumb, When men endowed with Liberty Lie bleeding, bound and dumb; But he whose faithful words of might Ring through the land from shore to sea, For man’s eternal equal right, O, that’s the man for me. No, no, he’s not the man for me, Whose voice o’er hill and plain Breaks forth for glorious liberty, But binds himself the chain! The mightiest of the noble band, Who prays and toils the world to free, With head, and heart, and voice, and vote, O, that’s the man for me. A SONG FOR FREEDOM. AIR--Dandy Jim. Come all ye bondmen far and near, Let’s put a song in massa’s ear, It is a song for our poor race, Who’re whipped and trampled with disgrace. Chorus. My old massa tells me O This is a land of freedom O; Let’s look about and see if ’tis so, Just as massa tells me O. He tells us of that glorious one, I think his name was Washington, How he did fight for liberty, To save a threepence tax on tea. Chorus. My old massa, &c. And then he tells us that there was A Constitution with this clause, That all men equal were created, How often have we heard it stated. Chorus. My old massa, &c. But now we look about and see, That we poor blacks are not so free; We’re whipped and thrashed about like fools, And have no chance at common schools. Chorus. Still, my old massa, &c. They take our wives, insult and mock, And sell our children on the block, Then choke us if we say a word, And say that “niggers” shan’t be heard. Chorus. My old massa, &c. Our preachers, too, with whip and cord, Command obedience in the Lord; They say they learn it from the book, But for ourselves we dare not look. Chorus. Still, my old massa tells me O, This is a _Christian_ country O, &c.