Air: Yankee Doodle
Lyrics by O.C. Dawson
Free soil we claim for Freedom's sons,
No more of slave-cursed acres,
For those who toil should own the soil,
Be of its fruits partakers.
"Old Buck" so blue,
And Fillmore, too,
Have both vile traitors been, sirs!
Catch up the shout,
And ring it out,
Fremont, Free soil, Free men, sirs!
Free speech and press, those brothers twain
In Kansas lack protection,
And though they long have suffered wrong,
We'll right it after election.
The types that in the rivers lie,
Thrown there for serving Freedom,
Washed clean and bright, may come to light
Some day when Truth shall need 'em.
We heed the cry in Kansas raised,
Freemen like slaves are treated,
Their houses burned, their just rights spurned
Though wronged, they're not defeated.
A coward crew fair Lawrence sacked,
With S. and A. to lead 'em,
(Those names too long, and vile for song,
For any song of Freedom.)
That border horde, their acts might shame
Our Father's base oppressors,
And in their turn, they too shall learn
How fares it with transgressors.
Who love the name of Bunker Hill,
Just think of this, and con it,
That Toombs declares, and madly swears,
His slaves he'll muster on it!
We've had enough of threats like this,
We'll patient be no longer,
And, if with canes, they beat our brains,
We'll send them something stronger,
Fremont shall keep our Western plains-
He was the first to cross them-
From slavery free, and soon there'll be
A railroad built across them.
Well send him on to Washington,
To be the White-House lessee,
And when our own have older grown,
We'll name a state for Jessie!
Then let us rise, the victory's ours,
We'll work and vote to win it,
For righteous laws we make our cause,
And all our hearts are in it.