His couch through the day is the cold damp ground,
But northward he runs through the night.
Chorus.
O, God speed the flight of the desolate slave,
Let his heart never yield to despair;
There is room ’mong our hills for the true and the brave,
Let his lungs breathe our free northern air!
O, sweet to the storm-driven sailor the light,
Streaming far o’er the dark swelling wave;
But sweeter by far ’mong the lights of the night,