Come join the Abolitionists,
    Ye dames and maidens fair,
  And breathe around us in our path
    Affection’s hallowed air;
O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O that will be joyful, when woman cheers us on,
When woman cheers us on, to conquests not yet won. 
  ’Tis then we’ll sing, and offerings bring,
  When woman cheers us on.

  Come join the Abolitionists,
    Ye sons and daughters all
  Of this our own America—­
    Come at the friendly call;
O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O that will be joyful, when all shall proudly say,
This, this is Freedom’s day—­Oppression flee away! 
  ’T is then we’ll sing, and offerings bring,
  When freedom wins the day.

THERE’S A GOOD TIME COMING.

There’s a good time coming boys,
  A good time coming;
There’s a good time coming boys,
  Wait a little longer. 
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
  Of the good time coming;
Cannon balls may aid the truth,
  But thought’s a weapon stronger;
We’ll win our battle by its aid,
  Wait a little longer. 
  O, there’s a good time, &c.

There’s a good time coming boys,
  A good time coming;
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And right, not might shall be the lord,
  In the good time coming. 
Worth, not birth shall rule mankind,
  And be acknowledged stronger,
The proper impulse has been given,
  Wait a little longer. 
  O, there’s a good time, &c.

There’s a good time coming boys,
  A good time coming;
Hateful rivalries of creed,
Shall not make their martyrs bleed,
  In the good time coming. 
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
  And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp,
  Wait a little longer. 
  O, there’s a good time, &c.

There’s a good time coming boys,
  A good time coming;
War in all men’s eyes shall be,
A monster of iniquity,
  In the good time coming. 
Nations shall not quarrel then,
  To prove which is the stronger;
Nor slaughter men for glory’s sake,
  Wait a little longer. 
  O, there’s a good time, &c.

THE BIGOT FIRE.

Written on the occasion of George Latimer’s Imprisonment in Levorott street
Jail, Boston.

O, kindle not that bigot fire,
  ’T will bring disunion, fear and pain;
’T will rouse at last the souther’s ire,
  And burst our starry land in twain.

Theirs is the high, the noble worth,
  The very soul of chivalry;
Rend not our blood-bought land apart,
  For such a thing as slavery.

This is the language of the North,
  I shame to say it but’t is true;
And anti-slavery calls it forth,
  From some proud priests and laymen too.