"The Negro's Complaint" in The Lady's Magazine
Poem by William Cowper / Music by "A Female Correspondent -- an Amateur" (Miss Greenwood)
Published in London, 1793
Forc'd from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne;
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But though theirs they have enroll'd me
Minds are never to be sold.
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards;
Think, how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there one who reigns on high?
Has he bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from his throne, the sky?
Ask him, if your knotted scourges,
Fetters, 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,
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations
Where his whirlwinds answer - No.
By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks receiv'd the chain;
By the mis'ries which we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main;
By our suff'rings since ye brought us
To the man-degrading mart;
All sustain'd 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 colour of our kind.
Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs,
Prove that you have human feelings,
Ere you proudly question ours.
"The Hapless Negro Boy"
Poem by David Samwell / Music by Thomas Hamly Butler
Published in London, ca. 1790
When avarice enslaves the mind,
And selfish views alone bear sway,
Man turns a savage to his kind,
And blood and rapine mark the way:
Alas! for this poor simple toy
I sold a blooming Negro Boy.
His father's hope, his mother's pride,
Tho' 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 blooming 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,
Or wing the lightning thro' the sky,
In his own time will sure destroy
The oppressors of a Negro Boy.
"Anacreon Ode XXIII"
Poem by Francis Fawkes / Music by Ignatius Sancho
Published in London, ca. 1769
If the treasured gold could give
Man a longer time to live,
I'd employ my utmost care
still to keep and still to spare,
And when death approach'd would say,
'Take thy fee and go away.'
But since riches cannot save
Mortals from the gloomy grave,
Why should I myself deceive,
Vainly sigh and vainly grieve?
Death will surely be my lot,
Whether I am rich or not.
Give me freely while I live
Gen'rous wine in plenty give,
Soothing joys my life to cheer,
Beauty kind and friend sincere.
Happy could I ever find
Friends sincere and beauty kind.
"The Negro Girl"
Poem by Mary Darby Robinson / Music by William Carnaby
Published in London, ca. 1801
Dark was the dawn and o’er the deep
The boist’rous whirlwinds blew;
The Seabird wheel’d its circling sweep,
And all was drear to view.
When on the beach that winds the western shore,
The lovelorn Zelma stood,
Listening to the tempest’s roar.
Her eager Eyes beheld the main,
While on her Draco dear
She madly call’d but call’d in vain,
No sound could Draco hear,
Save the shrill yelling of the fateful blast,
While ev’ry Seaman’s heart, quick shudder’d as it past.
“Be still!” she cried, “loud tempest cease!
“O! spare the gallant souls:
“The thunder rolls___ the winds increase ___
“The Sea, like mountains, rolls.
“While, from the deck, the storm ___worn victims leap,
“And o’er their struggling limbs, the furious billows sweep.
“Why, cruel White __ Man! When away
“My sable Love was torn,
“Why did you let poor Zelma stay,
“On Afric’s sands to mourn?
“No! Zelma is not left, for she will prove
“In the deep troubled main, her fond ___ her faithful Love”
“Torn from my Mother’s aching breast:
“My Tyrant sought my love ___
“But in the Grave shall Zelma rest,
“E’er she will faithless prove___
“No Draco! ___ Thy companion I will be
“To that celestial realm where Negroes shall be free!
“Swift o’er the plain of burning Sand
“My course I bent to thee;
“And soon I reach’d the billowy strand
“Which bounds the stormy Sea. ___
“Draco! my Love! Oh yet, thy Zelman’s soul
“Springs ardently to thee,__ impatient of control.
Now frantic, on the sands she roam’d,
Now shrieking stop’d to view
Where high the liquid mountains foam’d.
Around the exhausted crew___
Till from the deck, her Draco’s well known form
Sprung mid the yawning waves, and buffeted the Storm.
Long on the swelling surge sustain’d
Brave Draco sought the shore,
Watch’d the dark Maid, but ne’er complain’d,
Then sunk, to gaze no more!
Poor Zelma saw him buried by the wave ___
And with her heart’s true Love, plung’d in a wat’ry grave.
"Am I not a man and brother?"
Anonymous text set to the tune of Thomas Williams's "The Bride's Farewell" / Selected by William Wells Brown for the first number of The Anti-Slavery Harp: A Collection of Songs for Anti-Slavery Meetings
Published in Boston, 1848
Am I not a man and brother?
Ought I not, then, to be free?
Sell me not to one another,
Take not thus my liberty.
Christ our Saviour, Christ our Saviour,
Died for me as well as thee.
Am I not a man and brother?
Have I not a soul to save?
Oh, do not my spirit smother,
Making me a wretched slave;
God of mercy, God of mercy,
Let me fill a freeman's grave!
Yes, thou art a man and brother,
Though thou long has groaned a slave,
Bound with cruel cords and tether
From the cradle to the grave!
Yet the Saviour, yet the Saviour,
Bled and died all souls to save.
Yes, thou art a man and brother,
Though we long have told thee nay;
And are bound to aid each other,
All along our pilgrim way
Come and welcome, come and welcome,
Join with us to praise and pray!