Oh, it is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how beloved was the soul that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him:
'Tis the tear through many a long day wept,
Through a life by his loss all shaded,
'Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept,
When all other griefs have faded.
Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light
While it shines through our hearts will improve them;
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them.
And as buried saints the grave perfume,
Where fadeless they've long been lying;—
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying.
THE LIBERTY VOTER’S SONG.
Words by E. Wright, jr. Air, from "Niel Gow's Farewell."
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
The vote, the vote, the mighty vote,
Though once we used a humbler note,
And prayed our servants to be just,
We tell the now they must, they must.
Chorus.
The tyrant's grapple, by our vote,
We'll loosen from our brother's throat,
With Washington we here agree,
The vote's the weapon of the free.
We'll scatter not the precious power
On parties that to slavery cower;
But make it one against the wrong,
Till down it comes, a million strong.
The tyrant's grapple, &c.
We'll bake the dough-face with our vote,
Who stood the scorching when we wrote;
And paler than the milky way,
We'll bake the plastic face of Clay.
The tyrant's grapple, &c.
Our vote shall teach all statesmen law,
Who in the Southern harness draw;
So well contented to be slaves,
They fain would prove their fathers knaves!
The tyrant's grapple, &c.
We'll not provoke our wives to use
A power that we through fear abuse;
His mother shall not blush to own
One voter of us for a son.
The tyrant's grapple, by our vote,
We'll loosen from our brother's throat;
With Washington we here agree,
Whose mother taught him to be free!