When bright morning lights the hills,
Where free children sing most cheerily,
My young breast with sorrow fills,
While here I plod my way so wearily:
Sad my face, more sad my heart,
From home, from all I had to part,
A loving mother, my sister, my brother,
For chains and lash in hopeless misery,
Children try it, could you try it;
But one day to live in slavery,
Children try it, try it, try it;
Come, come, give me liberty.
Ere I close my eyes to sleep,
Thoughts of home keep coming over me;
All alone I wake and weep—
Yet mother hears not—no one pities me—
Never smiling, sick, forlorn,
Oh that I had ne'er been born!
I should not sorrow to die to-morrow,
Then mother earth would kindly shelter me;
Children try it, could you try it!
Give me freedom, yes, from misery!
Children try it, try it, try it!
Come, come, give me Liberty!
STOLEN WE WERE.
Words by a Colored Man.
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