Oft, in the chilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
When all her silvery light
The moon is pouring round me,
Beneath her ray,
I kneel and pray,
That God would give some token,
That Slavery's chains,
On southern plains,
Shall all, ere long, be broken.
Yes, in the chilly night,
Though Slavery's chain has bound me,
Kneel I, and feel the might
Of God's right arm around me.
When, at the driver's call,
In cold or sultry weather,
We slaves, both great and small,
Turn out to toil together,
I feel like one,
From whom the sun
Of hope has long departed,
And morning's light,
And weary night
Still find me broken-hearted.
Thus when the chilly breath
Of night is sighing round me,
Kneel I, and wish that Death,
In his cold chain, had bound me.