The writer will be happy to receive and forward any others or they may be sent direct to Mr. Armistead, Water Hall, Leeds.
Her Majesty Queen Victoria has, it appears, contributed to this collection, as have many other illustrious personages and numerous well-known friends to the cause.
Slave Mother with John Brown
Weary, and hungry, and worn,
And beating in sorrow her breast,
A Slave-mother sat through the night ’till morn,
Rocking her infant to rest.
Hush! Hush! Hush!
Sleep, babe! But oh, never wake!
The woe that’s for me is in store for thee:
Die, babe! Though thy mother’s heart break.
Work! Work! Work!
Long ere the lark carols aloof;
And work, work, work,
‘Till the stars shine through Heaven’s roof.
Woe! Woe, to be a slave,
To be flogged ’till you cannot stand;
Yet a child of God’s, with a soul to save;
And this in a Christian land!
Work! Work! Work!
That fine dames cheap cotton may wear;
Work, work, work,
And leave off it you only dare.
Plough, and harrow, and hoe,
Hoe, and harrow, and plough;
No food, no repose, though you sink half dead,
As weary as I am now.
Pick! Pick! Pick!
‘Till torn are your fingers, and sore;
And still pick, pick,
‘Till the cotton is dyed with gore.
Pick! Pick! Pick!
For have cotton cheap ladies will;
The work that’s begun will never be done,
The breath leaves the body until.
Work! Work! Work!
In sunshine, in wind, and in rain;
Work! Work! Work!
And still work for another’s gain.
Work! Work! Work!
In sorrow, in sickness, in fear;
Work ever, work, work, work,
With never a bright hope to cheer.
Oh women! Think and weep!
Think, mothers; think, sisters; think, wives;
When cotton you buy, and buy it so cheap,
At the price ’tis of human lives.
Pick! Pick! Pick!
Whilst the cow-hide is cracking around;
Pick! Pick! Pick!
In dread at its horrible sound.
Oh, mothers! With children dear,
To love, cherish, and call your own;
Change places with me, and ask God to hear,
Whilst you pray for a heart of stone.
Yes! Pray for a heart hard as stone,
For the one He gave you would burst,
If torn from your breast were the babe you carress’d,
And you for despairing were curs’d.
By night as well as day,
That Death’s hand in mercy might close
The eyes of your babe, you’d fervently pray,
And rejoice in its last repose.
For once in old time it was said:
Such innocents let come to Me;
My Kingdom above is made up of these,
And there all my children are free.
And why should such babes live?
To curse of their birth the sad day!
And why should tender mother’s give,
A love that is stolen away?
Oh! Rather let them die,
Like young buds in an unkind spring;
Let them die ere they know their life is woe,
And long ere their sorrows begin.
Thus through the night till morn,
And beating in sorrow her breast;
A Slave-mother sat, though weary and worn,
Rocking her infant to rest.
Hush! Hush! Hush!
Sleep, babe! But oh, never wake!
The woe that’s for me is in store for thee:
Die, babe! Though thy mother’s heart break.
LOUIS ALEXIS CHAMEROVZOW.
27 New Broad Street, London,
12th of October, 1855.
