The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales in Verse Part 53

A CANADIAN NATIONAL SONG.

Tune, "Auld Lang Syne."

O, no; I'm not an Englishman, Though it is something great To have for birthplace English soil, And live in such a State; Yet I'm not _now_ an Englishman, For why? I crossed the sea And live in dear Canadian clime, The Land of Liberty

I am not _now_ a leal Scotchman, Though born 'midst Scotia's hills, And recollections of her scenes My bosom ever thrills, For I have sailed o'er ocean vast, And to this land have come, Where Freedom waves her banner o'er My new, adopted home.

O, no, I'm not an Irishman, Though sprung from Erin's bowers, And Memory often takes me back To those most happy hours When, roaming o'er her fair green Isle, With warmth I pressed her sod, And felt my own, my native Land, The best that foot e'er trod.

[Footnote: The writer's main object in writing this song was to do what he could toward breaking down all remains of clannish feeling in this highly important country. Should a company, consisting of one or more persons from each of the countries mentioned, desire to sing it, each one might take the part applicable to him, and when the several sections have been gone through all join as full chorus in the last stanza, or slight verbal alterations may be so made that any single individual may sing it.]

For I have come to Canada To settle on her land, And to all her inhabitants Give Friends.h.i.+p's honored hand.

I am no longer German now Though "Fatherland" I loved, And vowed remembrance to take Of her, where'er I roved.

For here on this prolific soil I own a splendid farm, And lovely children growing up Call forth my feelings warm.

I would not be a Frenchman deemed, Though sprung of Gaulish race, And their pure blood I freely can In my forefathers trace.

For I would feel as much at home As ever man can be Back in our woods or in our towns, Whilst I have liberty.

O, yes; we are Canadians now, Wherever we were born; And we will strive in time to come To heal a land so torn By party strife, by clannish fire, And aim to live in peace.

Then put united efforts forth, Till life itself shall cease, To make her what she ought to be-- Acknowledged on each hand A n.o.ble, free, and powerful State, A great and glorious Land!

A CALL TO THE SOIREE* OF THE MECHANIC'S INSt.i.tUTE, DECEMBER 23, 1857.

"Endeavor always to combine real good with pleasurable enjoyment."

Come, friends, to the Soiree; O why will you tarry When good things are waiting you there?

For, after the eating, our friends, for this, meeting Have speeches prepared with due care.

Let all upper cla.s.ses give ladies cash pa.s.ses, 'Twill cost but a very small price; And what they may spend in a way that will end in Real good, is a blow unto vice.

Come, merchants and doctors; come lawyers and proctors, And treat all your clerks to the feast.

Fear not that your kindness will make them more mindless Of what is your interest, the least.

Come, all ye mechanics, for no dreadful panics Will meet you with grim spectre-faces.

Bring also your spouses, nor leave in your houses Those charmers who wear childhood's graces.

Come, each son of labor, and do us the favor Of tasting the good things provided.

A truce to your moiling! for hard daily toiling Gives Rank that must ne'er be derided.

Haste all to the Soiree; none need to be sorry For giving our Inst.i.tute aid.

The good you may do us'll diffuse itself through us To the townsfolks of every grade.

* p.r.o.nounced as nearly as possible, _swarry_.

AN ADDRESS BY THE MEMBERS OF THE "INSt.i.tUTE" TO THEIR FRIENDS AT THE SOIREE.

Dear friends, to this our social feast, We bid you welcome gladly, And trust you will not in the least Spend moments with us sadly.

For though we've no great Bardling's strain Joined to rich organ's pealing, Yet none the less may Pleasure's train Be softly near us stealing.

And should she deign to show her face, To smile on us benignly, Let's give to her a chaste embrace, By no means most supinely.

What though we lack exciting cause For loud, uproarious laughter?

Our temperate fare will not dispose To heart-upbraidings after.

Yet we may well of mirth-enjoy A reasonable measure; And even skill and time employ To gain so bright a treasure.

Avoiding still too great extremes, Enjoy in moderation The blessings which our Father deems Best for us in each station.

Then we need have no vain regrets, No consciences unruly,-- For sense of doing right begets A sense of peace most truly.

ALCOHOL'S ARRAIGNMENT AND DOOM.

Alcohol! Alcohol! who are thy victims?

Come, answer me quickly; stand forth to the bar!

That frown most defiant Will not make me pliant, I've pledged myself firmly to wage with thee war.

For years thy dread shock I have borne like a rock, Still leaning for help on G.o.d's mighty aim.

Say, Alcohol, truly, who are thy victims?

"Of the rich and the poor, the good and the fair, Mankind of each standing, Know well I've a hand in The havoc and ruin they see everywhere!

Daily with fury From Still and from Brewery I'm dealing out death without much alarm.

"Princes and Statesmen I count 'mongst my victims, With painters and poets, philosophers sage, Rich merchants, skilled doctors, Cute lawyers, keen proctors, Mechanics and laborers of each s.e.x and age Are found in my ranks, And lured on by my pranks, While I care not a pin what comes to them."

Then, Alcohol, tell me what do thy victims In such vile standing while here in this world?

"They're spending their money Not for milk and honey, But for what will cause them to be quickly hurled To that dreadful place Where there is not a trace Of richest mercy they here do contemn."

Alcohol, tell me what more are thy victims As fruits of their orgies accomplis.h.i.+ng here?

Asylums they're filling, While jails by their swilling Are constantly crowded, or far off or near; And orphans are made By this great liquor trade, In thousands as all may very soon see!

Alcohol, listen the doom which awaits thee: More than half of thy doings thou'st kept out of sight.

Every good man and true Deems it is but thy due That thou should'st be banished to Regions of Night.

And heart-broken mates, With all orphans' sad fates, Compel us to give forth this doom on thee.