CHEAP REPOSITORY.

# The Sorrows of YAMBA;
Or, The NEGRO WOMAN'S Lamentation.

To the Tune of HOSIER'S GHOST.

" IN St. Lucie's diffrent Ifle,
" Still with Afrie's love I burn ;

" Parted many a thousand mile,
" Never, never to return.

" Come kind death ! and give me reft,
" Yamba has no friend but thee;

" Thou can't eafe my throbbing breast,
" Thou can't let the prifoner free.

" Down my cheeks the tears are dripping,
" Broken is my heart with grief,

" Mangl'd my poor fleth with whipping,
" Come kind death ! and bring relief.

" Born on Afrie's golden coaft,

" Once I was as bleff as you ;
" Pam's tender I could boaff,

" Husband dear, and children too.

" Whity man he came from far,

" Sailing o'er the briny flood ;

" Who, with help of Britifh Tar,
" Buys up human fleth and blood.

" With the baby at my breast,
" (Other two were fleeping by;)

" In my hut I fat at reft,
" With no thought of danger nigh.

" From the bufh at even tide,
" Ruff'd the fierce man-stealing crew ;

" Seiz'd the children by my fide,
" Seiz'd the wretched Yamba too.

" Then for love of filthy gold,
" Strait they bore me to the fea;
" Cramm'd I me down a flave-ship's hold,
" Where were hundreds flow'd like me.

" Naked on the platform lying,
" Now we crofs the tumbling wave ;
" Shrieking, fickening, fainting, dying,
" Deaf of flame for Britons brave.

" At the favage Captain's beck,
" Now like brutes they make us prance;
" Smack the cat, about the deck,
" And in corn they bid us dance.

" I in groaning paſ's'd the night,
" And did roll my aching head ;
" At the break of morning light,
" My poor child was cold and dead.

" Happy, happy, there fhe lies !
" Thou fhalt feel the laſh no more.

" Thus full many a Negro dies,
" Ere we reach the deftin'd fore.

" Driven like Cattle to a fair,
" See they fell us young and old;

" Child from Mother too they tear,
" All for love of filthy gold.

" I was fold to Maffa hard,
" Some have Maffas kind and good ;
" And again my back was farr'd,
" Bad and flinted was my food.

" Poor and wounded, faint and fiek,
" All exp'd to burning fyke,
" Maffa bids me grafs to pick,

" And I now am near to die.

" What and if to death he fend me,
" Savage murder tho' it be,
" Britifh laws shall ne'er beſtriend me ;
" They protec't not flaves like me !"

Mourning thus my wretched ſlate,
(Ne'er may I forget the day.)

Once in duſk of evening late,
Far from home I dar'd to itray ;

Dar'd, alas ! with impious haſte,
Tow'rds the roaring ſea to fly ;

Death itſelf I long'd to tafe,
Long'd to caſt me in and die.

There I met upon the ſtrand
English Miflionary good,

He had Bible book in hand,
Which poor me no underſood.

Then he led me to his cot,
Sooth'd and pич'd all my woe,
Told me 'twas the Chriſtian's lot
Much to ſuffer here below.

Told me then of God's dear Son,
(Strange and wond'rous is the ſtory)

What ſad wrong to him was done,
Tho' he was the Lord of Glory.

Told me too, like one who knew him,
(Can fuch love as this be true ?)
How he dy'd for them that flew him,
Dy'd for wretched Yamba too.

Freely he his mercry proffer'd,
And to finners he was ſent,

E'en to Maffa pardon's offer'd,
O if Maffa would repent.

Wicked deed full many a time
Sinſul Yamba too hath done;

But ſhe wails to God her crime;
But ſhe truſts his only Son.

O ye Slaves whom Maffas beaſt,
Ye are ſtain'd with guilt within;

As ye hope for mercy fweet,
So forgive your Maffas' fin.

And with grief when finking low,
Mark the road that Yamba trod,

Think how all her pain and woe
Brought the captive home to God.

Now let Yamba too adore:
Gracious Heaven's myſterious plan;

Now I'll count thy mercies o'er.
Flowing thro' the guilt of man.

Now I'll bleſs my cruel capture,
(Hence I've known a Saviour's name)

'Till my grief is turn'd to rapture,
And I half forget the blame.

But tho' here a convert rare
Thanks her God for grace divin;

Let not man the glory ſhare,
Sinner, fill the guilt is thine.

Dull now baptiz'd am I
By good Miflionary Man :
Lord my nature purify
As no outward water can !

All my former thoughts abhorr'd,
Teach me now to pray and praiſe ;
Joy and glory in my Lord,
Traſt and ferve him all my days.

But tho' death this hour may find me,
Still with Afrie's love I burn,

(There I've left a ſpouſe behind me)
Still to native land I turn.

And when Yamba ſinks in death,
This my lateſt prayer ſhall be,

While I yield my parting breath,
O that Afrie might be free,

Ceaſe, ye Britifh Sons of Murder !
Ceaſe from forging Afrie's chain;

Mock your Saviour's name no further,
Ceaſe your favage luſt of gain.

Ye that boaſt " Ye rule the waves,"
Bid no Slave Ship foil the ſea,
Ye that " Never will be Slaves,"
Bid poor Afrie's land be free.

Where ye gave to war its birth,
Where your traders fix'd their den,
There go publifh " Peace on Earth,"
Go proclaim " Good-will to Men."

Where ye once have carried ſlaught er,
Vice, and flavery, and fin;

Seiz'd on hufband, wife, and daugh ter,
Let the Gofpel enter in.

Thu- where Yamba's native home,
Humble hut of rufhes ſtood,

Oh ! if there ſhould chance to roam
Some dear Miflionary good,

Thou in Afrie's diſtant land,
Still thalt fee the man I love,

Join him to the Chriſtian band,
Guide his foul to realms above.

There no Fiend again ſhall fever
Thofe whom God hath join'd and bled :

There they dwell with Him for ever,
There " the weary are at reſt."

[Entered at Stationers Hall.]