Takes the poor panting bondman his flight;
His couch through the day is the cold damp ground,
But northward he runs through the night.

Chorus.
O, God speed the flight of the desolate slave,
Let his heart never yield to despair;
There is room 'mong our hills for the true and the brave,
Let his lungs breathe our free northern air!

O, sweet to the storm-driven sailor the light,
Streaming far o'er the dark swelling wave;
But sweeter by far 'mong the lights of the night,
Is the star of the north to the slave.
O, God speed, &c.

Cold and bleak are our mountains and chilling our winds,
But warm as the soft southern gales
Be the hands and the hearts which the hunted one finds,
'Mong our hills and our own winter vales.
O, God speed, &c.

Then list to the 'plaint of the heart-broken thrall,
Ye blood-hounds, go back to your lair;
May a free northern soil soon give freedom to _all_,
Who shall breathe in its pure mountain air.
O, God speed, &c.