Over the mountain and over the moor, Hungry and weary I wander forlorn; My father is dead and my mother is poor, And she grieves for the days that will never return; Give me some food for my mother in charity, Give me some food and then I will be gone. Pity, kind gentlemen, friends of humanity, Cold blows the wind and the night’s coming on. Call me not indolent beggar and bold enough, Fain would I learn both to knit and to sew; I’ve two little brothers at home, when they’re old enough, They will work hard for the gifts you bestow; Pity, kind gentlemen, friends of humanity, Cold blows the wind, and the night’s coming on; Give me some food for my mother in charity, Give me some food, and then I will be gone. JUBILEE SONG. AIR--Away the Bowl. Our grateful hearts with joy o’erflow, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, We hail the Despot’s overthrow, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, No more he’ll raise the gory lash, And sink it deep in human flesh, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra. We raise the song in Freedom’s name, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Her glorious triumph we proclaim, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Beneath her feet lie Slavery’s chains, Their power to curse no more remains, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra. With joy we’ll make the air resound, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, That all may hear the gladsome sound, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, We glory at Oppression’s fall, The Slave has burst his deadly thrall, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra. In mirthful glee we’ll dance and sing, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, With shouts we’ll make the welkin ring, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Shout! shout aloud! the bondsman’s free! This, this is Freedom’s jubilee! Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra. SPIRIT OF FREEMEN, WAKE! AIR--America. Spirit of Freemen, wake; No truce with Slavery make, Thy deadly foe; In fair disguises dressed, Too long hast thou caress’d The serpent in thy breast, Now lay him low. Must e’en the press be dumb? Must truth itself succumb? And thoughts be mute? Shall law be set aside, The right of prayer denied, Nature and God decried, And man called brute? What lover of her fame Feels not his country’s shame, In this dark hour? Where are the patriots now, Of honest heart and brow, Who scorn the neck to bow To Slavery’s power? Sons of the Free! we call On you, in field and hall, To rise as one; Your heaven-born rights maintain, Nor let Oppression’s chain On human limbs remain;-- Speak! and ’tis done. THE SLAVE’S LAMENTATION. AIR--Long, long ago.