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Cheap Repository.
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The
SORROWS of YAMBA;
Or, The Negro Woman's Lamentation.
To the Tune of
Hosier's Ghost.
"In St. Lucie's distant Isle,
"Still with Afric's love I burn;
"Parted
many a thousand mile,
"Never, never to
return.
"Come, kind death! and give me rest,
"Yamba has no friend by thee;
"Thou
can'st ease my throbbing breast,
"Thou can'st set the
Prisoner free.
"Down my cheeks the tears are dripping,
"Broken is my heart with grief;
"Mangled
my poor flesh with whipping,
"Come kind
death! and bring relief.
"Born on Afric's Golden Coast,
"Once I was as blest as you;
"Parents tender I could boast,
"Husband dear, and children too.
"Whity Man he came from far,
"Sailing o'er the briny flood,
"Who, with
help of British Tar,
"Buys up human
flesh and blood.
"With the Baby at my breast;
"(Other two were sleeping by)
"In
my Hut I sat at rest
"With no
thought of danger nigh.
"From the bush at even tide
"Rush'd the fierce man-stealing
Crew;
"Seiz'd the Children by my side,
"Seiz'd the wretched Yamba too.
"Then for love of filthy Gold,
"Strait they bore me to the sea;
"Cramm'd me down a Slave-ship's hold,
"Where were Hundreds stow'd like me.
"Naked on the platform lying,
"Now
we cross the tumbling wave;
"Shrieking, sickening, fainting,
dying,
"Deed of shame for Britons
brave.
"At the savage Captain's beck,
"Now like Brutes they make us prance;
"Smack the Cat about the Deck,
"And in
scorn they bid us dance.
"I in groaning pass'd the
night,
"And did roll my aching head;
"At
the break of morning light,
"My poor Child was
cold and dead.
"Happy, happy there she lies!
"Thou shalt feel the lash no
more.
"Thus full many a Negro dies,
"Ere
we reach the destin'd shore.
"Driven like Cattle to a
fair,
"See they sell us young and old;
"Child from Mother too they tear,
"All for
love of filthy Gold.
"I was sold to Massa hard,
"Some have Massas kind and good;
"And again my back was scarr'd
"Bad
and stinted was my food.
"Poor and wounded, faint and
sick,
"All exposs'd to burning
sky,
"Massa bids me grass to pick,
"And now I am near to die.
"What and if to death he send me,
"Savage murder tho' it be,
"British
Laws shall ne'er befriend me;
"They
protect not Slaves like me!"
Mouthing thus my wretched state,
(Ne'er may I forget the day)
Once in
dusk of evening late,
Far from home I
dared to stray;
Dared, alas! with impious haste,
Tow'rds the roaring sea to fly;
Death itself I longed to taste,
Long'd to cast me in and Die.
There I met upon the Strand
English Missionary Good,
He had Bible book in hand,
Which poor me
no understood.
Then he led me to his Cot,
Sooth'd and pity'd all my woe;
Told me
'twas the Christian's lot
Much to
suffer here below.
Told me then of God's dear Son,
(Strange and wond'rous is the story;)
What sad wrong was to him done,
Tho' he was the Lord of Glory.
Told me too, like one who knew him,
(Can such love as this be true?)
How he dy'd for them that slew him.
Died for wretched Yamba too.
Freely he his mercy proffer'd,
And
to Sinners he was sent;
E'en to Massa pardon's offer'd;
O if Massa would repent!
Wicked deed full many a time
Sinful Yamba too hath done;
But she
wails to God her crime;
But she
trusts his only Son.
O ye slaves whom
Massa beat,
Ye are
stained with guilt within
As ye hope for mercy sweet
So forgive your Massas' Sin.
And with grief when sinking low,
Mark the Road that Yamba trod;
Think how
all her pain and woe
Brought the Captive home
to God.
Now let Yamba too adore
Gracious Heaven's mysterious Plan;
Now I'll count thy mercies o'er,
Flowing
thro' the guilt of man.
Now I'll bless my cruel capture,
(Hence I've known a Saviour's name)
'Till
my Grief is turn'd to Rapture,
And I half
forget the blame.
But tho' here a Convert rare
Thanks her God for Grace divine,
Let not
man the glory share,
Sinner,
still the guilt is thine.
Duly now baptiz'd am I
By good Missionary Man;
Lord
my nature purify
As no outward water can!
All my former thoughts abhorr'd
Teach me now to pray and praise;
Joy and glory in my Lord,
Trust and
serve him all my days.
But tho' death this hour may find me,
Still with Afric's love I
burn,
(There I've left a spouse behind me)
Still to native land I turn.
And
when Yamba sinks in death,
This my
latest prayer shall be,
While I yield my parting breath,
O that Afric might be
free.
Cease, ye British Sons of murder!
Cease from forging Afric's Chain;
Mock your Saviour's name no further,
Cease your savage lust of
gain.
Ye that boast "Ye rule the waves,"
Bid no Slave Ship soil the sea,
Ye that "never will be slaves"
Bid poor Afric's land be free.
Where ye gave to war it's birth,
Where your traders fix'd their den,
There
go publish "Peace on Earth,"
Go
proclaim "good will to men."
Where ye once have carried
slaughter,
Vice, and Slavery, and Sin;
Seiz'd on Husband, Wife, and Daughter,
Let the Gospel enter in.
Thus where Yamba's native home,
Humble Hut of Rushes flood,
Oh if
there should chance to roam
Some dear
Missionary good,
Thou in Afric's distant land,
Still shalt see the man I love;
Join him to the Christian band,
Guide his Soul to Realms above.
There no Fiend again shall sever
Those whom God hath join'd and
blest;
There they dwell with Him for ever,
There "weary are at rest."
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Entered at Stationers Hall.] [sic]
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