Song Of The Negro Boatman

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 leaf 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 clay 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;     Oh 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