John Greenleaf Whittier - The Hunting of Men

Lyrics

Have ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men? The lords of our land to this hunting have gone As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn; Hark! the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the whip And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen Through cane-brake and forest, — thе hunting of men! Gay luck to our hunters! how nobly they ridе In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride! The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind Just screening the politic statesman behind; The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there And woman, kind woman, wife, widow, and maid For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid: Her foot's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein How blithely she rides to the hunting of men! Oh, goodly and grand is our hunting to see In this "land of the brave and this home of the free." Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine All mounting the saddle, all grasping the rein; Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin! Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay! Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey? Will their hearts fail within them? their nerves tremble, when All roughly they ride to the hunting of men? Ho! alms for our hunters! all weary and faint Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint The horn is wound faintly, the echoes are still Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill Haste, alms for our hunters! the hunted once more Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore: What right have they here in the home of the white Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right? Ho! alms for the hunters! or never again Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men! Alms, alms for our hunters! why will ye delay When their pride and their glory are melting away? The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone? The politic statesman looks back with a sigh There is doubt in his heart, there is fear in his eye Oh, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail And the head of his steed take the place of the tail Oh, haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men?