Song of the Negro Boatmen at Port Royal, S. C.
By John G. Whittier
O praise and 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 free men.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We’ll hab de rice an’ corn:
O 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.
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.
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:
O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!