Where human law o’errules Divine,
Beneath the sheriff’s hammer fell
My wife and babes,—­I call them mine,—­
And where they suffer, who can tell? 
  The hounds are baying on my track,
  O Christian! will you send me back?

I seek a home where man is man,
If such there be upon this earth,
To draw my kindred, if I can,
Around its free, though humble hearth. 
  The hounds are baying on my track,
  O Christian! will you send me back?

RESCUE THE SLAVE!

AIR—­The Troubadour.

This song was composed while George Latimer, the fugitive slave, was confined in Leverett Street Jail, Boston, expecting to be carried back to Virginia by James B. Gray, his claimant.

Sadly the fugitive weeps in his cell,
  Listen awhile to the story we tell;
Listen ye gentle ones, listen ye brave,
  Lady fair!  Lady fair! weep for the slave.

Praying for liberty, dearer than life,
  Torn from his little one, torn from his wife,
Flying from slavery, hear him and save,
  Christian men!  Christian men! help the poor slave.

Think of his agony, feel for his pain,
  Should his hard master e’er hold him again;
Spirit of liberty, rise from your grave,
  Make him free, make him free, rescue the slave.

Freely the slave master goes where he will;
  Freemen, stand ready, his wishes to fulfil,
Helping the tyrant, or honest or knave,
  Thinking not, caring not, for the poor slave.

Talk not of liberty, liberty is dead;
  See the slave master’s whip over our head;
Stooping beneath it, we ask what he craves,
  Boston boys!  Boston boys! catch me my slaves.

Freemen, arouse ye, before it’s too late;
  Slavery is knocking, at every gate,
Make good the promise, your early days gave,
  Boston boys!  Boston boys! rescue the slave.

THE SLAVE-HOLDER’S ADDRESS TO THE NORTH STAR.

Star of the North!  Thou art not bigger
  Than is the diamond in my ring;
Yet, every black, star-gazing nigger
  Looks at thee, as at some great thing! 
Yes, gazes at thee, till the lazy
  And thankless rascal is half crazy.

Some Abolitionist has told them,
  That, if they take their flight toward thee,
They’ll get where “massa” cannot hold them,
  And therefore to the North they flee. 
Fools to be led off, where they can’t earn
  Their living, by thy lying lantern.

We will to New England write,
  And tell them not to let thee shine
(Excepting of a cloudy night)
  Anywhere south of Dixon’s line;
If beyond that thou shine an inch,
  We’ll have thee up before Judge Lynch.

And when, thou Abolition star,
  Who preachest Freedom in all weathers,
Thou hast got on thy coat of tar,
  And over that, a cloak of feathers,
Thou art “fixed” none will deny,
  If there’s a fixed star in the sky.