Songs for the People Let me make the songs for the people,Songs for the old and young;Songs to stir like a battle-cryWherever they are sung. Not for the clashing of sabres,For carnage nor for strife;But songs to thrill the hearts of menWith more abundant life. Let me make the songs for the weary,Amid life’s fever … Continued
Let me make the songs for the people, Songs for the old and young; Songs to stir like a battle-cry Wherever they are sung.
Not for the clashing of sabres, For carnage nor for strife; But songs to thrill the hearts of men With more abundant life.
Let me make the songs for the weary, Amid life’s fever and fret, Till hearts shall relax their tension, And careworn brows forget.
Let me sing for little children, Before their footsteps stray, Sweet anthems of love and duty, To float o’er life’s highway.
I would sing for the poor and aged, When shadows dim their sight; Of the bright and restful mansions, Where there shall be no night.
Our world, so worn and weary, Needs music, pure and strong, To hush the jangle and discords Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.
Music to soothe all its sorrow, Till war and crime shall cease; And the hearts of men grown tender Girdle the world with peace.
Bury Me in a Free Land
Make me a grave where’er you will, In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill; Make it among earth’s humblest graves, But not in a land where men are slaves.
I could not rest if around my grave I heard the steps of a trembling slave; His shadow above my silent tomb Would make it a place of fearful gloom.
I could not rest if I heard the tread Of a coffle gang to the shambles led, And the mother’s shriek of wild despair Rise like a curse on the trembling air. I could not sleep if I saw the lash Drinking her blood at each fearful gash, And I saw her babes torn from her breast, Like trembling doves from their parent nest.
I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey, And I heard the captive plead in vain As they bound afresh his galling chain.
If I saw young girls from their mother’s arms Bartered and sold for their youthful charms , My eye would flash with a mournful flame, My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.
I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might Can rob no man of his dearest right; My rest shall be calm in any grave Where none can call his brother a slave.
I ask no monument, proud and high, To arrest the gaze of the passers-by; All that my yearning spirit craves, Is bury me not in a land of slaves.
The Voices Education Project offers tools, philosophies, and learning methods that will help young people understand the roots of conflict and the trauma of war, confront the pain and fear at the heart of conflict, and help to build healthy human communities in the wake of war. We use the arts and education to transform the consciousness of young people, give teachers and students a way to explore the most important and terrifying issues of our day, and create a dialogue in which all voices can be heard, and all points of view included, without engendering fear, hatred, or anger.