« PreviousContinue »
THE SLAVE TRADE.
Op all thy foreign crimes, from pole to pole,
What barbarous race are authors of his woe? With freights of fetters, who the vessel stow? Who forge the torture-irons, who plait the scourge? Whose navies shield the pirates o’er the surge ? Who, from the mother's arms, the clinging child Tears? It is England,-merciful and mild ! Most impious race, who brave the watery realm In blood-fraught barks, with Murder at the helm ! Who trade in tortures, profit draw from pain, And even whose mercy is but love of gain! Whose human cargoes carefully are packt, By rule and square, according to the Act ! And is that gore-drenched flag by you unfurled, Champions of right, knights-errant of the world? “ Yes, yes,” your Commons said, “ Let such things be, “ If OTHERS rob and murder, why not we?" In the smoothed speech, and in the upraised hand, I hear the lash, I hear the fierce command; Each guilty nay ten thousand crimes decreed, And English mercy said, Let millions bleed!
O LASSIE, will ye gang
me, And dwell amang yon hielan' hills;Trim is my skiff, saft rows the sea,
The summer breeze the sail scarce fills.
The sea-bird on her white breast lights,
And, floating trig, her feathers laves; Or on the wing, in wheeling flight,
Darts at her image in the waves.
The hielan' hills, though bare and bleak,
Hae bonny glens and shaws between, Whare blooms the wild-rose like thy cheek,
And bluebells like thy downcast een
What though nae houses, bien and braw
Rise proudly on yon heathery braes,— A shielin is a lordly ha',
If there wi' thee I pass my days.
Yes, laddie, I will gang wi' thee;
Wi' thee I'll trust the faithless main;
On heathery bents I'll lay my head,
Hardship, whan tholed for thee, has charms; Wi' thee I'll ask nae other bed,
Nae other shielin than thy arms.
Tune--If a Body meet a Body.
MARION is a bonny lass,
There's glawmry in her smile; And yet by a' it is confest,
That Marion's free frae guile.
Ilk rising thought, before she speaks,
Ye maist wad think ye saw; An' then her voice comes like the breeze
Blawn o'er the birken shaw.
Whane'er she sings, her artless notes
In sweetness far exceed
Repeats the shepherd's reed: