The Project Gutenberg eBook of The liberty minstrel
Title: The liberty minstrel
Author: George Washington Clark
Release date: July 16, 2007 [eBook #22089]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Carlo Traverso, collective PM for music, Linda
Cantoni, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Library of Congress.)
Music transcribed by Linda Cantoni and the PGDP Music Team.
Transcriber's Notes: The midi and pdf files provided in this e-book were created with Lilypond version 2.10. Please note that Lilypond's midi output does not reproduce some dynamics and articulations. Moreover, the pdf output uses modern notation style (except for old-style quarter rests).
Where appropriate, the Lilypond source files contain Transcriber's Notes regarding corrections to the music. For each song, the lyrics in the music image have been reproduced in the text.
Click on the [Listen] link to hear a song in midi format; the [PDF] link to view a music transcription in pdf format; and the [Lilypond] link to view the Lilypond source code in plaintext format.
THE
LIBERTY MINSTREL.
"When the striving of surges
Is mad on the main,
Like the charge of a column
Of plumes on the plain,
When the thunder is up
From his cloud cradled sleep
And the tempest is treading
The paths of the deep—
There is beauty. But where is the beauty to see,
Like the sun-brilliant brow of a nation when free?"
BY
GEO. W. CLARK.
NEW-YORK:
LEAVITT & ALDEN, 7 Cornhill, Boston: SAXTON & MILES, 205
Broadway, N.Y.: MYRON FINCH, 120
Nassau st., N.Y.:
JACKSON & CHAPLIN, 38 Dean st., Albany, N.Y.:
JACKSON & CHAPLIN, corner Genessee and
Main st., Utica, N.Y.
1844.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1844, by
GEORGE W. CLARK,
In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District
of New York.
S.W. BENEDICT & CO.
MUSIC STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS,
16 Spruce St. N.Y.
PREFACE.
All creation is musical—all nature speaks the language of song.
'There's music in the sighing of a reed,
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if man had ears;
The earth is but an echo of the spheres.'
And who is not moved by music? "Who ever despises music," says Martin Luther, "I am displeased with him."
'There is a charm—a power that sways the breast,
Bids every passion revel, or be still;
Inspires with rage, or all our cares dissolves;
Can soothe destruction, and almost soothes despair.'
That music is capable of accomplishing vast good, and that it is a source of the most elevated and refined enjoyment when rightly cultivated and practiced, no one who understands its power or has observed its effects, will for a moment deny.
'Thou, O music! canst assuage the pain and heal the wound
That hath defied the skill of sager comforters;
Thou dost restrain each wild emotion,
Thou dost the rage of fiercest passions chill,
Or lightest up the flames of holy fire,
As through the soul thy strains harmonious thrill.'
Who does not desire to see the day when music in this country, cultivated and practised by all—music of a chaste, refined and elevated style, shall go forth with its angel voice, like a spirit of love upon the wind, exerting upon all classes of society a rich and healthful moral influence. When its wonderful power shall be made to subserve every righteous cause—to aid every humane effort for the promotion of man's social, civil and religious well-being.
It has been observed by travellers, that after a short residence in almost any of the cities of the eastern world, one would fancy "every second person a musician." During the night, the streets of these cities, particularly Rome, the capitol of Italy, are filled with all sorts of minstrelsy, and the ear is agreeably greeted with a perpetual confluence of sweet sounds. A Scotch traveller, in passing through one of the most delightful villas of Rome, overheard a stonemason chanting something in a strain of peculiar melancholy; and on inquiry, ascertained it to be the "Lament of Tasso." He soon learned that this celebrated piece was familiar to all the common people. Torquato Tasso was an Italian poet of great merit, who was for many years deprived of liberty, and subjected to severe trials and misfortunes by the jealousy and cruelty of his patron, the Duke of Ferrara. That master-piece of music, so justly admired and so much sung by the high and low throughout all Italy, had its origin in the wrongs of Tasso. An ardent love of humanity—a deep consciousness of the injustice of slavery—a heart full of sympathy for the oppressed, and a due appreciation of the blessings of freedom, has given birth to the poetry comprising this volume. I have long desired to see these sentiments of love, of sympathy, of justice and humanity, so beautifully expressed in poetic measure, embalmed in sweet music; so that all the people—the rich, the poor, the young, and the old, who have hearts to feel, and tongues to move, may sing of the wrongs of slavery, and the blessings of liberty, until every human being shall recognise in his fellow an equal;—"a man and a brother." Until by familiarity with these sentiments, and their influence upon their hearts, the people, whose duty it is, shall "undo the heavy burdens and let the oppressed go free."
I announced, sometime since, my intention of publishing such a work. Many have been impatiently waiting its appearance. I should have been glad to have issued it and scattered it like leaves of the forest over the land, long ago, but circumstances which I could not control, have prevented. I purpose to enlarge the work from time to time, as circumstances may require.
Let associations of singers, having the love of liberty in their hearts, be immediately formed in every community. Let them study thoroughly, and make themselves perfectly familiar with both the poetry and the music, and enter into the sentiment of the piece they perform, that they may impress it upon their hearers. Above all things, let the enunciation of every word be clear and distinct. Most of the singing of the present day, is entirely too artificial, stiff and mechanical. It should be easy and natural; flowing directly from the soul of the performer, without affectation or display; and then singing will answer its true end, and not only please the ear, but affect and improve the heart.
To the true friends of universal freedom, the Liberty Minstrel is respectfully dedicated.
G.W. CLARK.
New York, Oct. 1844.
THE
LIBERTY MINSTREL.
GONE, SOLD AND GONE.
Words by Whittier. Music by G.W. Clark.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air,
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and rack'd with pain,
To their cheerless homes again—
There no brother's voice shall greet them—
There no father's welcome meet them.—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play—
From the cool spring where they drank—
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank—
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there.—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the Spoiler's prey;
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more!—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
By the holy love He beareth—
By the bruised reed He spareth—
Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.—Gone, &c.
WHAT MEANS THAT SAD AND DISMAL LOOK?
Words by Geo. Russell. Arranged from "Near the Lake," by G.W.C.
What means that sad and dismal look,
And why those falling tears?
No voice is heard, no word is spoke,
Yet nought but grief appears.
Ah! Mother, hast thou ever known
The pain of parting ties?
Was ever infant from thee torn
And sold before thine eyes?
Say, would not grief thy bosom swell?
Thy tears like rivers flow?
Should some rude ruffian seize and sell
The child thou lovest so?
There's feeling in a Mother's breast,
Though colored be her skin!
And though at Slavery's foul behest,
She must not weep for kin.
I had a lovely, smiling child,
It sat upon my knee;
And oft a tedious hour beguiled,
With merry heart of glee.
That child was from my bosom torn,
And sold before my eyes;
With outstretched arms, and looks forlorn,
It uttered piteous cries.
Mother! dear Mother!—take, O take
Thy helpless little one!
Ah! then I thought my heart would break;
My child—my child was gone.
Long, long ago, my child they stole,
But yet my grief remains;
These tears flow freely—and my soul
In bitterness complains.
Then ask not why "my dismal look,"
Nor why my "falling tears,"
Such wrongs, what human heart can brook?
No hope for me appears.
The Slave Boy’s Wish.
BY ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.
I wish I was that little bird,
Up in the bright blue sky;
That sings and flies just where he will,
And no one asks him why.
I wish I was that little brook,
That runs so swift along;
Through pretty flowers and shining stones,
Singing a merry song.
I wish I was that butterfly,
Without a thought or care;
Sporting my pretty, brilliant wings,
Like a flower in the air.
I wish I was that wild, wild deer,
I saw the other day;
Who swifter than an arrow flew,
Through the forest far away.
I wish I was that little cloud,
By the gentle south wind driven;
Floating along, so free and bright,
Far, far up into heaven.
I'd rather be a cunning fox,
And hide me in a cave;
I'd rather be a savage wolf,
Than what I am—a slave.
My mother calls me her good boy,
My father calls me brave;
What wicked action have I done,
That I should be a slave.
I saw my little sister sold,
So will they do to me;
My Heavenly Father, let me die,
For then I shall be free.
THE BEREAVED FATHER.
Words by Miss Chandler. Music by G.W.C.
Ye've gone from me, my gentle ones!
With all your shouts of mirth;
A silence is within my walls,
A darkness round my hearth,
A darkness round my hearth.
Woe to the hearts that heard, unmoved,
The mother's anguish'd shriek!
And mock'd, with taunting scorn, the tears
That bathed a father's cheek.
Woe to the hands that tore you hence,
My innocent and good!
Not e'en the tigress of the wild,
Thus tears her fellow's brood.
I list to hear your soft sweet tones,
Upon the morning air;
I gaze amidst the twilight's gloom,
As if to find you there.
But you no more come bounding forth
To meet me in your glee;
And when the evening shadows fall,
Ye are not at my knee.
Your forms are aye before my eyes,
Your voices on my ear,
And all things wear a thought of you,
But you no more are here.
You were the glory of my life,
My blessing and my pride!
I half forgot the name of slave,
When you were by my side!
Woe for your lot, ye doom'd ones! woe
A seal is on your fate!
And shame, and toil, and wretchedness,
On all your steps await!
SLAVE GIRL MOURNING HER FATHER.
Parodied from Mrs. Sigourney by G.W.C.
They say I was but four years old
When father was sold away;
Yet I have never seen his face
Since that sad parting day.
He went where brighter flowrets grow
Beneath the Southern skies;
Oh who will show me on the map
Where that far country lies?
I begged him, "father, do not go!
For, since my mother died,
I love no one so well as you;"
And, clinging to his side,
The tears came gushing down my cheeks
Until my eyes were dim;
Some were in sorrow for the dead,
And some in love for him.
He knelt and prayed of God above,
"My little daughter spare,
And let us both here meet again,
O keep her in thy care."
He does not come!—I watch for him
At evening twilight grey,
Till every shadow wears his shape,
Along the grassy way.
I muse and listen all alone,
When stormy winds are high,
And think I hear his tender tone,
And call, but no reply;
And so I've done these four long years,
Without a friend or home,
Yet every dream of hope is vain,—
Why don't my father come?
Father—dear father, are you sick,
Upon a stranger shore?—
The people say it must be so—
O send to me once more,
And let your little daughter come,
To soothe your restless bed,
And hold the cordial to your lips,
And press your aching head.
Alas!—I fear me he is dead!—
Who will my trouble share?
Or tell me where his form is laid,
And let me travel there?
By mother's tomb I love to sit,
Where the green branches wave;
Good people! help a friendless child
To find her father's grave.
The Slave and her Babe.
WORDS BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.
"Can a woman forget her sucking child?"
Air—"Slave Girl mourning her Father."
O, massa, let me stay, to catch
My baby's sobbing breath;
His little glassy eye to watch,
And smooth his limbs in death,
And cover him with grass and leaf,
Beneath the plantain tree!
It is not sullenness, but grief—
O, massa, pity me!
God gave me babe—a precious boon,
To cheer my lonely heart,
But massa called to work too soon,
And I must needs depart.
The morn was chill—I spoke no word,
But feared my babe might die,
And heard all day, or thought I heard,
My little baby cry.
At noon—O, how I ran! and took
My baby to my breast!
I lingered—and the long lash broke
My sleeping infant's rest.
I worked till night—till darkest night,
In torture and disgrace;
Went home, and watched till morning light,
To see my baby's face.
The fulness from its cheek was gone,
The sparkle from its eye;
Now hot, like fire, now cold, like stone,
I knew my babe must die.
I worked upon plantation ground,
Though faint with woe and dread,
Then ran, or flew, and here I found—
See massa, almost dead.
Then give me but one little hour—
O! do not lash me so!
One little hour—one little hour—
And gratefully I'll go.
Ah me! the whip has cut my boy,
I heard his feeble scream;
No more—farewell my only joy,
My life's first gladsome dream!
I lay thee on the lonely sod,
The heaven is bright above;
These Christians boast they have a God,
And say his name is Love:
O gentle, loving God, look down!
My dying baby see;
The mercy that from earth is flown,
Perhaps may dwell with Thee!
THE NEGRO’S APPEAL.
Words by Cowper. Tune—"Isle of Beauty."
Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Christian people bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold:
But though slave they have enrolled me
Minds are never to be sold.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell me,
Is there one who reigns on high?
Has he bid you buy and sell me,
Speaking from his throne—the sky?
Ask him, if your knotted scourges,
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges
Agents of his will to use.
Hark! he answers—wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks,
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which he speaks.
He, foreseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo,
Fixed their tyrant's habitations,
Where his whirlwinds answer—No!
By our blood in Afric' wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
By the miseries that we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main:
By our sufferings, since ye brought us
To the man-degrading mart,
All sustained by patience, taught us
Only by a broken heart—
Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find,
Worthier of regard and stronger
Than the color of our kind.
Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted powers;
Prove that you have human feelings,
Ere you proudly question ours.
NEGRO BOY SOLD FOR A WATCH.[1]
Words by Cowper. Arranged by G.W.C. from an old theme.
When avarice enslaves the mind,
And selfish views alone bear sway
Man turns a savage to his kind,
And blood and rapine mark his way.
Alas! for this poor simple toy,
I sold the hapless Negro boy.
His father's hope, his mother's pride,
Though black, yet comely to the view
I tore him helpless from their side,
And gave him to a ruffian crew—
To fiends that Afric's coast annoy,
I sold the hapless Negro Boy.
From country, friends, and parents torn,
His tender limbs in chains confined,
I saw him o'er the billows borne,
And marked his agony of mind;
But still to gain this simple toy,
I gave the weeping Negro Boy.
In isles that deck the western wave
I doomed the hapless youth to dwell,
A poor, forlorn, insulted slave!
A beast that christians buy and sell!
And in their cruel tasks employ
The much-enduring Negro Boy.
His wretched parents long shall mourn,
Shall long explore the distant main
In hope to see the youth return;
But all their hopes and sighs are vain:
They never shall the sight enjoy,
Of their lamented Negro Boy.
Beneath a tyrant's harsh command,
He wears away his youthful prime;
Far distant from his native land,
A stranger in a foreign clime.
No pleasing thoughts his mind employ,
A poor, dejected Negro Boy.
But He who walks upon the wind,
Whose voice in thunder's heard on high,
Who doth the raging tempest bind,
And hurl the lightning through the sky,
In his own time will sure destroy
The oppressor of the Negro Boy.
I AM MONARCH OF NOUGHT I SURVEY.
A Parody. Air "Old Dr. Fleury."
I am monarch of nought I survey,
My wrongs there are none to dispute;
My master conveys me away,
His whims or caprices to suit.
O slavery, where are the charms
That "patriarchs" have seen in thy face;
I dwell in the midst of alarms,
And serve in a horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
And must finish my life with a groan;
Never hear the sweet music of speech
That tells me my body's my own.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon some,
Are blessings I never can prove,
If slavery's my portion to come.
Religion! what treasures untold,
Reside in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver or gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But I am excluded the light
That leads to this heavenly grace;
The Bible is clos'd to my sight,
Its beauties I never can trace.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this sorrowful land,
Some cordial endearing report,
Of freedom from tyranny's hand.
My friends, do they not often send,
A wish or a thought after me?
O, tell me I yet have a friend,
A friend I am anxious to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight;
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of Victoria's domain,
In a moment I seem to be there,
But the fear of being taken again,
Soon hurries me back to despair.
The wood-fowl has gone to her nest,
The beast has lain down in his lair;
To me, there's no season of rest,
Though I to my quarter repair.
If mercy, O Lord, is in store,
For those who in slavery pine;
Grant me when life's troubles are o'er,
A place in thy kingdom divine.
THE AFRIC’S DREAM.
Words by Miss Chandler. "Emigrant's Lament," arranged by G.W.C.
Why did ye wake me from my sleep? It was a dream of bliss,
And ye have torn me from that land, to pine again in this;
Methought, beneath yon whispering tree, that I was laid to rest,
The turf, with all its with'ring flowers, upon my cold heart pressed.
My chains, these hateful chains, were gone—oh, would that I might die,
So from my swelling pulse I could forever cast them by!
And on, away, o'er land and sea, my joyful spirit passed,
Till, 'neath my own banana tree, I lighted down at last.
My cabin door, with all its flowers, was still profusely gay,
As when I lightly sported there, in childhood's careless day!
But trees that were as sapling twigs, with broad and shadowing bough,
Around the well-known threshhold spread a freshening coolness now.
The birds whose notes I used to hear, were shouting on the earth,
As if to greet me back again with their wild strains of mirth;
My own bright stream was at my feet, and how I laughed to lave
My burning lip, and cheek, and brow, in that delicious wave!
My boy, my first-born babe, had died amid his early hours,
And there we laid him to his sleep among the clustering flowers;
Yet lo! without my cottage-door he sported in his glee,
With her whose grave is far from his, beneath yon linden tree.
I sprang to snatch them to my soul; when breathing out my name,
To grasp my hand, and press my lip, a crowd of loved ones came!
Wife, parents, children, kinsmen, friends! the dear and lost ones all,
With blessed words of welcome came, to greet me from my thrall.
Forms long unseen were by my side; and thrilling on my ear,
Came cadences from gentle tones, unheard for many a year;
And on my cheeks fond lips were pressed, with true affection's kiss—
And so ye waked me from my sleep—but 'twas a dream of bliss!
SONG OF THE COFFLE GANG.[2]
Words by the Slaves. Music by G.W.C.
See these poor souls from Africa,
Transported to America;
We are stolen, and sold to Georgia, will you go along with me?
We are stolen and sold to Georgia, go sound the jubilee.
See wives and husbands sold apart,
The children's screams!—it breaks my heart;
There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me?
There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
O gracious Lord! when shall it be,
That we poor souls shall all be free?
Lord, break them Slavery powers—will you go along with me?
Lord, break them Slavery powers, go sound the jubilee.
Dear Lord! dear Lord! when Slavery'll cease,
Then we poor souls can have our peace;
There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me?
There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
HARK! I HEAR A SOUND OF ANGUISH.
Air, "Calvary."
Hark! I hear a sound of anguish
In my own, my native land;
Brethren, doomed in chains to languish,
Lift to heaven the suppliant hand,
And despairing,
And despairing,
Death the end of woe demand.
Let us raise our supplication
For the wretched suffering slave,
All whose life is desolation,
All whose hope is in the grave;
God of mercy!
From thy throne, O hear and save.
Those in bonds we would remember
As if we with them were bound;
For each crushed, each suffering member
Let our sympathies abound,
Till our labors
Spread the smiles of freedom round.
Even now the word is spoken;
"Slavery's cruel power must cease,
From the bound the chain be broken,
Captives hail the kind release,"
While in splendor
Comes to reign the Prince of Peace.
BROTHERS BE BRAVE FOR THE PINING SLAVE.
Air—"Sparkling and Bright."