 | Later Lyrics |  |
22
THE QUESTION.
Tell me, Master, am I free?
From the prison land I come,
From a mocked humanity,
From the fable of a home;
From the prison land I come,
From a mocked humanity,
From the fable of a home;
From the shambles, where my wife
With my baby at her breast,
Faded from my narrow life,
Rudely bartered, ill-possest.
With my baby at her breast,
Faded from my narrow life,
Rudely bartered, ill-possest.
Will you keep me, for my faith,
From the hound that scents my track,
From the riotous, drunken breath,
From the murder at my back?
From the hound that scents my track,
From the riotous, drunken breath,
From the murder at my back?
23
Masters, ye are fighting long;
Well your trumpet-blast we know;
Are ye come to right a wrong?
Do we call you friend or foe?
Well your trumpet-blast we know;
Are ye come to right a wrong?
Do we call you friend or foe?
God must come, for whom we pray,
Knowing his deliverance true;
Shall our men be left to say
He must work it free of you?
Knowing his deliverance true;
Shall our men be left to say
He must work it free of you?
Fetters of a burning chain
Held the spirit of our braves;
Waiting for the nobler strain,
Silence told him we were slaves.
Held the spirit of our braves;
Waiting for the nobler strain,
Silence told him we were slaves.
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