Sons of old Pilgrim Fathers! and are ye thus dumb? 
Shall tyranny triumph, and freedom succumb? 
While mothers are torn from their children apart,
And agony sunders the cords of the heart? 
Shall the sons of those sires that once spurned the chain,
Turn bloodhounds to hunt and make captive again? 
O, shame to your honor, and shame to your pride,
And shame on your memory ever abide!

Will not your old sires start up from the ground,
At the crack of the whip, and bay of the hound,
And shaking their skeleton hands in your face,
Curse the germs that produced such a miscreant race?

O, rouse ye for freedom, before on your path
Heaven pours without mixture the vials of wrath! 
Loose every hard burden—­break off every chain—­
Restore to the bondman his freedom again.

FLING OUT THE ANTI-SLAVERY FLAG.

Air—­Auld Lang Syne

Fling out the Anti-slavery flag
  On every swelling breeze;
And let its folds wave o’er the land,
  And o’er the raging seas,
Till all beneath the standard sheet,
  With new allegiance bow;
And pledge themselves to onward bear
  The emblem of their vow.

Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag,
  And let it onward wave
Till it shall float o’er every clime,
  And liberate the slave;
Till, like a meteor flashing far,
  It bursts with glorious light,
And with its Heaven-born rays dispels
  The gloom of sorrow’s night.

Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag,
  And let it not be furled,
Till like a planet of the skies,
  It sweeps around the world. 
And when each poor degraded slave,
  Is gathered near and far;
O, fix it on the azure arch,
  As hope’s eternal star.

Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag,
  Forever let it be
The emblem to a holy cause,
  The banner of the free. 
And never from its guardian height,
  Let it by man be driven,
But let it float forever there,
  Beneath the smiles of heaven.

THE YANKEE GIRL.

She sings by her wheel at that low cottage door,
Which the long evening shadow is stretching before;
With a music as sweet as the music which seems
Breathed softly and faintly in the ear of our dreams!

How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye,
Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky! 
And lightly and freely her dark tresses play
O’er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they!

Who comes in his pride to that low cottage door—­
The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 
’Tis the great Southern planter—­the master who waves
His whip of dominion o’er hundreds of slaves.

“Nay, Ellen, for shame!  Let those Yankee fools spin,
Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin;
Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel
Too stupid for shame and too vulgar to feel!