The North Star (Rochester)/1848/01/14/A Parody
From the Clarion of Freedom.
A PARODY.
by a Lady of New-Concord.
I'm a slave unto all I survey,
My toils surely none will dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I'm degraded from man to a brute.
Am I out of humanity's reach?
Must I finish my journey a slave?
And ne'er hear the sweet music of speech,
But start at the sound of a knave?
My toils surely none will dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I'm degraded from man to a brute.
Am I out of humanity's reach?
Must I finish my journey a slave?
And ne'er hear the sweet music of speech,
But start at the sound of a knave?
Oh, Slavery, where are those charms
That nabobs have seen in thy face?
Better bie from foul slavery's arms,
Than live in their shameful disgrace.
The beasts of the forest are free;
The fowls of the air have their rest;
But the black man, degraded is he,—
He's starved and most cruelly press'd.
That nabobs have seen in thy face?
Better bie from foul slavery's arms,
Than live in their shameful disgrace.
The beasts of the forest are free;
The fowls of the air have their rest;
But the black man, degraded is he,—
He's starved and most cruelly press'd.
Liberty, Friendship, and Love,
Divinely bestowed upon men:
Liberty! gift from above,
How glad would the slave taste again!
His sorrows he then might assuage,
In pursuit of his pleasure and taste,—
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be free from the nabob's disgrace.
Divinely bestowed upon men:
Liberty! gift from above,
How glad would the slave taste again!
His sorrows he then might assuage,
In pursuit of his pleasure and taste,—
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be free from the nabob's disgrace.
Religion! what mockery sore
Is made of that most sacred word?
The black man is whipped to a gore,
While the pulpit resounds with "O Lord!"
And is it the tyrant that cries,
And calls on the name of our God?
Oh, yes; and behold with surprise,
The next moment his slave feels the rod.
Is made of that most sacred word?
The black man is whipped to a gore,
While the pulpit resounds with "O Lord!"
And is it the tyrant that cries,
And calls on the name of our God?
Oh, yes; and behold with surprise,
The next moment his slave feels the rod.
Ye white men, or rather, ye knaves,—
Convey to this desolate heart
The wife of the down-trodden slave:
Ye tyrants, you forced us apart!
My daughters, I now of you crave;
The sons that were pride of my heart
Are suffering the toils of the slave—
Your tyranny forced us apart.
Convey to this desolate heart
The wife of the down-trodden slave:
Ye tyrants, you forced us apart!
My daughters, I now of you crave;
The sons that were pride of my heart
Are suffering the toils of the slave—
Your tyranny forced us apart.
The hand of the master I feel,—
He whips me and scourges me still;
My labor he daily doth steal,
And sells me, his coffers to fill.
When I think of his pride and his pelf,
His cruel oppression and scorn,
I weep, and I say to myself,
I wish I had never been born!
He whips me and scourges me still;
My labor he daily doth steal,
And sells me, his coffers to fill.
When I think of his pride and his pelf,
His cruel oppression and scorn,
I weep, and I say to myself,
I wish I had never been born!
My master can lie down to rest—
I labor and toil for him still:
Alas! for the slave there's no rest—
The tyrant oppresses him still!
I know there's a calm resting-place—
It in the confines of the grave.
I pity the white man's disgrace;
Oh, Father, protect me, a slave!
I labor and toil for him still:
Alas! for the slave there's no rest—
The tyrant oppresses him still!
I know there's a calm resting-place—
It in the confines of the grave.
I pity the white man's disgrace;
Oh, Father, protect me, a slave!