The Anti-Slavery Harp   By: Various

A COLLECTION OF SONGS FOR ANTI SLAVERY MEETINGS

COMPILED BY

WILLIAM W. BROWN,

A FUGITIVE SLAVE.

1848.

PREFACE.

The demand of the public for a cheap Anti Slavery Song Book, containing Songs of a more recent composition, has induced me to collect together, and present to the public, the songs contained in this book.

In making this collection, however, I am indebted to the authors of the "Liberty Minstrel," and "the Anti Slavery Melodies," But the larger portion of these songs has never before been published; some have never been in print.

To all true friends of the Slave, the Anti Slavery Harp is respectfully dedicated,

W. W. BROWN.

BOSTON, JUNE, 1848.

SONGS.

HAVE WE NOT ALL ONE FATHER?

AM I NOT A MAN AND BROTHER?

AIR Bride's Farewell.

Am I not a man and brother? Ought I not, then, to be free? Sell me not one to another, Take not thus my liberty. Christ our Saviour, Christ our Saviour, Died for me as well as thee.

Am I not a man and brother? Have I not a soul to save? Oh, do not my spirit smother, Making me a wretched slave; God of mercy, God of mercy, Let me fill a freeman's grave!

Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though thou long hast groaned a slave, Bound with cruel cords and tether From the cradle to the grave! Yet the Saviour, yet the Saviour, Bled and died all souls to save.

Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though we long have told thee nay; And are bound to aid each other, All along our pilgrim way. Come and welcome, come and welcome, Join with us to praise and pray!

O, PITY THE SLAVE MOTHER.

AIR Araby's Daughter.

I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary, Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast; I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary, I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed. O who can imagine her heart's deep emotion, As she thinks of her children about to be sold; You may picture the bounds of the rock girdled ocean, But the grief of that mother can never be known.

The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom, That ever has bloomed in her path way below; It has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom, And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe; Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression; Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay; No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggression She must weep as she treads on her desolate way.

O, slave mother, hope! see the nation is shaking! The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong! The slave holder's heart now with terror is quaking, Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong! Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing, May one day lift up its unmanacled form, While hope, to thy heart, like the rain bow so cheering, Is born, like the rain bow, 'mid tempest and storm.

THE BLIND SLAVE BOY.

AIR Sweet Afton.

Come back to me, mother! why linger away From thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day! I mark every footstep, I list to each tone, And wonder my mother should leave me alone! There are voices of sorrow, and voices of glee, But there's no one to joy or to sorrow with me; For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share, And none for the poor little blind boy will care.

My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast Once more let thy poor little blind one be pressed; Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek, And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak! O mother! I've no one to love me no heart Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part; No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind, O! none like a mother can cherish the blind!

Poor blind one! No mother thy wailing can hear, No mother can hasten to banish thy fear; For the slave owner drives her, o'er mountain and wild, And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child! Ah! who can in language of mortals reveal The anguish that none but a mother can feel, When man in his vile lust of mammon hath trod On her child, who is stricken and smitten of God!

Blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone, She hears in her anguish his piteous moan, As he eagerly listens but listens in vain, To catch the loved tones of his mother again! The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall On the wretch who hath mingled this wormwood and gall, And his gain like a mildew shall blight and destroy, Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy!