Ye vocal Blackbirds, bring your native pipes, Your own _Moor’s_ Melodies, ye niggers, bring; To celebrate the fall of chains and stripes, Sing “Possum up a gum-tree,”--roar and sing! From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Chaunt_, Sambo, chaunt,--and, Obadiah, groan! Bring all your woolly pickaninnies dear-- Bring John Canoe and all his jolly gang: Stretch ev’ry blubber-mouth from ear to ear, And let the driver in his whip go hang! From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Grin_, Sambo, grin,--and, Obadiah, groan! Your working garb indignantly renounce; Discard your slops in honour of the day-- Come all in frill, and furbelow, and flounce, Come all as fine as Chimney Sweeps in May-- From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Dress_, Sambo, dress,--and, Obadiah, groan! Come, join together in the dewy dance, With melting maids in steamy mazes go; Humanity delights to see you prance, Up with your sooty legs and jump Jim Crow-- From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Skip_, Sambo, skip,--and, Obadiah, groan! Kiss dark Diana on her pouting lips, And take black Phœbe by her ample waist-- Tell them to-day is Slavery’s eclipse, And Love and Liberty must be embraced-- From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Kiss_, Sambo, kiss,--and, Obadiah, groan! With bowls of sangaree and toddy come! Bring lemons, sugar, old Madeira, limes, Whole tanks and water-barrels full of rum, To toast the whitest date of modern times-- From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Drink_, Sambo, drink,--and, Obadiah, groan! Talk, all together, talk! both old and young, Pour out the fulness of the negro heart; Let loose the now emancipated tongue, And all your new-born sentiments impart-- From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Spout_, Sambo, spout,--and, Obadiah, groan! Huzza! for equal rights and equal laws; The British parliament has doff’d your chain-- Join, join in gratitude your jetty paws, And swear you never will be slaves again-- From this day forth your freedom is your own: _Swear_, Sambo, swear,--and, Obadiah, groan! A TALE OF A TRUMPET. “Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing? Speak a little louder, for I’m very hard of hearing.” _Old Ballad._ Of all old women hard of hearing, The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing! On her head, it is true, Two flaps there grew, That served for a pair of gold rings to go through, But for any purpose of ears in a parley, They heard no more than ears of barley.