Part 3

Then shall indeed Messiah's reign Through all the world extend; Then swords to ploughshares shall be turned, And Heaven with earth shall blend.

OVER THE MOUNTAIN.

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 begone.

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 't is done.

THE SLAVE'S LAMENTATION.

AIR--Long, long ago.

Where are the friends that to me were so dear, Long, long ago--long ago! Where are the hopes that my heart used to cheer? Long, long ago--long ago! I am degraded, for man was my foe, Friends that I loved in the grave are laid low, All hope of freedom hath fled from me now, Long, long ago--long, long ago!

Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head-- Long, long ago--long ago! O, how I wept when I found she was dead! Long, long ago--long ago! She was my angel, my love and pride-- Vainly to save her from torture I tried, Poor broken heart! She rejoiced as she died, Long, long ago--long, long ago!

Let me look back on the days of my youth-- Long, long ago--long ago! Master withheld from me knowledge and truth-- Long, long ago--long ago! Crushed all the hopes of my earliest day, Sent me from father and mother away-- Forbade me to read, nor allowed me to pray-- Long, long ago--long, long ago!

FLIGHT OF THE BONDMAN. DEDICATED TO WILLIAM W. BROWN And Sung by the Hutchinsons

BY ELIAS SMITH.

AIR--Silver Moon.

From the crack of the rifle and baying of hound, Takes the poor panting bondman his flight; His couch through the day is the cold damp ground, But northward he runs through the night.

Chorus. O, God speed the flight of the desolate slave, Let his heart never yield to despair; There is room 'mong our hills for the true and the brave, Let his lungs breathe our free northern air!

O, sweet to the storm-driven sailor the light, Streaming far o'er the dark swelling wave; But sweeter by far 'mong the lights of the night, Is the star of the north to the slave. O, God speed, &c.

Cold and bleak are our mountains and chilling our winds, But warm as the soft southern gales Be the hands and the hearts which the hunted one finds, 'Mong our hills and our own winter vales. O, God speed, &c.