Song Of The Emigrant.
By John Baron.
AWAY o’er the sea with the Lancashire witches;
Away o’er the sea with the Lancashire boys;
In our colonies bright there is labor and riches,
And the shanty abounds with its primitive joys.
Leave the bell of the tyrant – the noise of the engine
To rot in the tower and to whirr in the shed,
Whilst the sword of the hero falls bright and avenging
On the cold-blooded, plague-spotted slave-owner’s head.
Leave your taskmasters, heartless as was the Egyptian,
And grasping as is the usurious Jew;
Make your home in the bush, though of lowliest description.
‘Twill an Eden soon prove to your children and you.
Away o’er the deep! leave your hypocrites hoary; -
Corrupt politicians, and maw-worms in weed
Seek to keep you at home with some counterfeit story
Like swine in your bug-crowded death sheds to feet.
Leave your cloud-spitting chimnies and brick-blooming meadows,
There is health in the forest, and wealth in the woods;
Come and toil where the sycamore tree overshadows
Perennial verdue and pearl-sprinkled floods.
New Zealand or Queensland, Oh! how they invite us,
Yea, Canada beckons us over the deep;
Our dear Fatherland hath few charms to delight us,
Green pastures await us, rich harvest to reap.