Is the star of the north to the slave.
O, God speed, &c.
Cold and bleak are our mountains and chilling our winds,
But warm as the soft southern gales
Be the hands and the hearts which the hunted one finds,
’Mong our hills and our own winter vales.
O, God speed, &c.
Then list to the ’plaint of the heart-broken thrall,
Ye blood-hounds, go back to your lair;
May a free northern soil soon give freedom to all,