Part 2 — SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.
Reading edition
Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee. De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves He jus' as 'trong as den; He say de word: we las' night slaves; To-day, de Lord's freemen. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!
Ole massa on he trabbels gone; He leab de land behind: De Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind. We own de hoe, we own de plough, We own de hands dat hold; We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!
We pray de Lord: he gib us signs Dat some day we be free;
De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!
We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; So, like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord: An' now he open ebery door, An' trow away de key; He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn: So nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!
So sing our dusky gondoliers; And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain.
We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny; We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder still; We start to think that hapless race Must shape our good or ill;
That laws of changeless justice bind Oppressor with oppressed; And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast.
Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom,— The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom!