No darker record on the roll of time
Was e'er inscribed to country, age, or clime,
By the red hand of war-so barbarous, frantic;
The war you wage-mad cousins transatlantic.
Your glorious land of men and gold you drain-
And seas of blood and festering hills of slain.
Bankrupt and beggar'd: in your every state
These are your gains, you'll sum them up too late.
Sons of the Union-ah! a mighty change
Your words and deeds have wrought-beyond the range
Of British sympathy your cause you place;
We almost blush to own your kindred race.
Your freedom's dead. Her last expiring groan
Comes o'er the waters wild; a shudd'ring moan
Wails through your forests, echoes round your hills,
We hear, and Britain's heart with horror thrills.
Yes, freedom of the press! the tongue, the mind,
Henceforth ye must be deaf, and dumb, and blind:
Lincoln and Seward wills it. Kiss your chains,
And sing of conquest in triumphant strains.
And 'Stowe,' thou gifted daughter of the North,
Friend of the Southern slave, we call thee forth:
Let truth and candour guide thy graphic pen;
Denounce white slavery in the Northern men.
Columbian dames! do ye sustain your part?
The weeping, blushing blood of woman's heart,
Say-does it pulse your veins and dye with shame
Your blushing cheeks at Butler's branded name?
Of braggart speech that spurns at check or rule,
Like 'idiot's tale of sound and fury full;'
You feed on lies that fail you at your need,
Nor heaven nor earth will bid your cause God-speed.