James Conway Jackson; Washington Bee, April 15, 1911

Oh, they tell of grim, old giants who fought in the days of old;
Of the knights who wore the gauntlets, of the many warriors bold;
And they rave about the brave men who looked danger in the face,
But we seldom hear a good word for the champions of our race.

Oh, they sing about the martyrs, and the heroes of the day;
The historians and the poets join in one great tuneful lay;
Everybody and his brother seem to have his proper place,
But there’s few that give due honor to the champions of our race.

Who’s the champions? you would ask me, since I seem to fume and fret–
they’re the boys who fought our battles, they’re the boys who toil and sweat:
Boys like Mitchell, Fortune, Trotter, and that grand old fighter, Chase,
They’re the boys whose praise I’m singing; they’re the champions of our race!*

Preachers, educators, doctors, lawyers, we contrive to give a share,
But the men who fight our battles we think they can live on air.
Oh, we pay for white folks’ papers with a free and easy grace,
But we’re mighty slow to cash in to the champions of our race.

‘Tis no easy thing to stand up in this Negro-hating age
And strike out right from the shoulder when our foes are blind with rage;
When our friends are either silent, or speak just to save their face,
‘Tis no easy road to travel as the champions of our race.

champions! Champions! That’s a good name, and they’ll deserve it, too,
for they’re true as steel, and faithful–all except a few.
so, then, let us as a people stand up bravely in our place,
And be faithful, true and loyal to the champions of our race.

*John Mitchell, Richmond Planet; T. Thomas Fortune, New York Age; William Monroe Trotter, Boston Guardian; William Calvin Chase, Washington Bee