Next, I drew up a body of rules for our Chartist Association; and, as we so often indulged in singing, I proposed to two of our members who had occasionally shown me their rhymes, that they should compose hymns for our Sunday meetings.  John Bramwich, the elder of these persons, was a stocking-weaver, and was now about fifty years old.  He had been a soldier, and had seen service in the West Indies and America.  He was a grave, serious man, the very heart of truth and sincerity.  He died of sheer exhaustion, from hard labour and want, in the year 1846.  William Jones, the other composer of rhymes I referred to, was a much younger man, of very pleasing manners and appearance.  He was what is called a “glove-hand,” and therefore earned better wages than a stockinger.  He had been a hard worker, but had acquired some knowledge of music.  He published a small volume of very excellent poetry, at Leicester, in 1853, and died in 1855, being held in very high respect by a large circle of friends.

The contributions of Bramwich and Jones to our hymnology, were published in my weekly Extinguisher, until we collected them in our “Shaksperean Chartist Hymn Book.”  The following is the most favourite hymn composed by Bramwich.―We sang it to the hymn tune “New Crucifixion.”

Britannia’s sons, though slaves ye be,
God, your Creator, made you free;
He life and thought and being gave,
But never, never made a slave!

His works are wonderful to see,
All, all proclaim the Deity;
He made the earth, and formed the wave,
But never, never made a slave!

He made the sky with spangles bright,
The moon to shine by silent night;
The sun―and spread the vast concave,
But never, never made a slave!

The verdant earth, on which we tread,
Was by His hand all carpeted;
Enough for all He freely gave,
But never, never made a slave!

All men are equal in His sight,
The bond, the free, the black, the white;
He made them all,―them freedom gave;
God made the man―Man made the slave!

Fourteen hymns were contributed by Bramwich to our “Shaksperean Chartist Hymn Book,” and sixteen by William Jones.  The following was our favourite hymn of those composed by Jones, and we usually sang it to the hymn tune called “Calcutta.”

Sons of poverty assemble,
    Ye whose hearts with woe are riven,
Let the guilty tyrants tremble,
    Who your hearts such pain have given.
          We will never
    From the shrine of truth be driven.

Must ye faint―ah! How much longer?
    Better by the sword to die
Than to die of want and hunger:
    They heed not your feeble cry:
          Lift your voices―
    Lift your voices to the sky!

Rouse them from their silken slumbers,
    Trouble them amidst their pride:
Swell your ranks, augment your numbers,
    Spread the Charter, far and wide!
          Truth is with us:
    God Himself is on our side.

See the brave, ye spirit broken,
    That uphold your righteous cause;
Who against them hath not spoken?
    They are, just as Jesus was,
          Persecuted
    By bad men and wicked laws.

Dire oppression, Heaven decrees it,
    From our land shall soon be hurled:
Mark the coming time and seize it―
    Every banner be unfurled!
          Spread the Charter!
    Spread the Charter through the world.

I venture to add one of the only two hymns that I contributed to our Hymn Book: we sang it in the noble air of the “Old Hundredth.”

God of the earth, and sea, and sky,
To Thee Thy mournful children cry:
Didst Thou the blue that bends o’er all
Spread for a general funeral pall?

Sadness and gloom pervade the land;
Death―famine―glare on either hand;
Didst Thou plant earth upon the wave
Only to form one general grave?

Father, why didst Thou form the flowers?
They blossom not for us, or ours:
Why didst Thou clothe the fields with corn?
Robbers from us our share have torn.

The ancients of our wretched race
Told of Thy sovereign power and grace,
That in the sea their foes o’erthrew―
Great Father!―is the record true?

Art Thou the same who, from all time,
O’er every sea, through every clime,
The stained oppressor’s guilty head
Hast visited with vengeance dread?

To us,―the wretched and the poor,
Whom rich men drive from door to door,―
To us, then, make Thy goodness known,
And we Thy lofty name will own.

Father, our frames are sinking fast:
Hast Thou our names behind Thee cast?
Our sinless babes with hunger die:
Our hearts are hardening!―Hear our cry!

Appear, as in the ancient days!
Deliver us from our foes, and praise
Shall from our hearts to Thee ascend―
To God our Father, and our Friend!