O pray, ye friends of Freedom, For those who toil in chains, Who lift their fettered hands to-day On Carolina’s plain! God is the hope of the Oppressed; His arm is strong to save; Pray, then, that freedom’s cause be blest, Your brother is _a Slave_! O toil, ye friends of freedom, toil! Your mission to fulfil,-- That Freedom’s consecrated soil Slaves may no longer till; Ay, toil and pray from deep disgrace Your native land to save; Weep o’er the miseries of your race, _Your Brother is a slave_! WHAT MEAN YE? AIR--Ortonville. What mean ye that ye bruise and bind My people, saith the Lord, And starve your craving brother’s mind, Who asks to hear my word? What mean ye that ye make them toil, Through long and dreary years, And shed like rain upon your soil Their blood and bitter tears? What mean ye, that ye dare to rend The tender mother’s heart? Brothers from sisters, friend from friend, How dare you bid them part? What mean ye, when God’s bounteous hand To you so much has given, That from the slave who tills your land Ye keep both earth and heaven? When at the judgment God shall call, Where is thy brother? say, What mean ye to the judge of all To answer on that day? EMANCIPATION SONG. AIR--Crambambule. Let waiting throngs now lift their voices, As Freedom’s glorious day draws near, While every gentle tongue rejoices, And each bold heart is filled with cheer; The slave has seen the Northern star, He’ll soon be free, hurrah, hurrah! Though many still are writhing under The cruel whips of “chevaliers,” Who mothers from their children sunder, And scourge them for their helpless tears-- Their safe deliverance is not far, The day draws nigh!--hurrah, hurrah! Just ere the dawn the darkness deepest Surrounds the earth as with a pall; Dry up thy tears, O thou that weepest, That on thy sight the rays may fall! No doubt let now thy bosom mar; Send up the shout--hurrah, hurrah! Shall we distrust the God of heaven?-- He every doubt and fear will quell; By him the captive’s chains are riven-- So let us loud the chorus swell! Man shall be free from cruel law,-- Man shall be MAN!--hurrah, hurrah! No more again shall it be granted To southern overseers to rule; No more will pilgrim’s sons be taunted With cringing low in slavery’s school. So clear the way for Freedom’s car, The free shall rule!--hurrah, hurrah! Send up the shout Emancipation-- From heaven let the echoes bound-- Soon will it bless this franchised nation, Come raise again the stirring sound! Emancipation near and far-- Send up the shout--hurrah! hurrah! INDEX A Song for Freedom, 36 Are ye truly Free? 42 Blind Slave Boy, 5 Bereaved Slave Mother, 18 Be Free, O Man, be Free, 26