SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

  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!

FREMONT’S HUNDRED DAYS IN MISSOURI.

II.

Camp Haskell, October 24th. We have marched twelve miles to-day, and are encamped near the house of a friendly German farmer.  Our cortege has been greatly diminished in number.  Some of the staff have returned to St. Louis; to others have been assigned duties which remove them from head-quarters; and General Asboth’s division being now in the rear, that soldierly-looking officer no longer rides beside the General, and the gentlemen of his staff no longer swell our ranks.