Bury Me in a Free Land

You may make my grave wherever you will,

In a lowly vale or a lofty hill;

You may make it among earth’s humblest graves,

But not in a land where men are slaves.

I could not sleep if around my grave

I heard the steps of a trembling slave;

His shadow above my silent tomb

Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

I could not rest if I heard the tread

Of a coffle-gang to the shambles led,

And the mother’s shriek of wild despair

Rise like a curse on the trembling air.

I could not rest if I heard the lash

Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,

And I saw her babes torn from her breast

Like trembling doves from their parent nest.

I’d shudder and start, if I heard the bay

Of the bloodhounds seizing their human prey;

If I heard the captive plead in vain

As they tightened afresh his galling chain.

If I saw young girls, from their mothers’ arms

Bartered and sold for their youthful charms

My eye would flash with a mournful flame,

My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.

I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might

Can rob no man of his dearest right;

My rest shall be calm in any grave,

Where none calls his brother a slave.

I ask no monument, proud and high

To arrest the gaze of the passers by;

All that my yearning spirit craves,

Is—bury me not in the land of slaves.—