MY OWN PLACE.

A servant, the badge of my servitude shines
As a jewel invested by Heaven;

A monarch, remember that justice assigns
Much service, where so much is given !

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Away then with "helpings" that humble and harm
Though "bettering" trips from your tongue,
Away! for your folly would scatter the charm
That round my proud poverty hung:

I felt that I stood like a man at my post,
Though peril and hardship were there,-
And all that your wisdom would counsel me most
Is-"Leave it ;-do better elsewhere."

If better were better indeed, and not worse,
I might go a-head with the rest;
But many a gain and a joy is a curse,
And many a grief for the best:
No!--duties are all the "advantage" I use;
I pine not for praise or for pelf;
And, as for ambition, I care not to choose
My better or worse for myself!

I will not, I dare not, I cannot !—I stand
Where GOD has ordain'd me to be,
An honest mechanic-or lord in the land,-
He fitted my calling for me:

Whatever my state, be it weak, be it strong,
With honour, or sweat, on my face,

This, this is my glory, my strength, and my song,
I stand, like a star, in MY PLACE.

RICH AND POOR.

(A BALLAD FOR UNION.)

O LADIES, lords, and gentlemen,
Attend to what I say,

For well I wot you'll like it when
You listen to my lay;

And labourers and weavers too,

Come near, who ever can,

I want the best of all of

To build a Noble Man.

you,

The time is past for lofty looks,
As well as vulgar deeds;
Religion, common-sense, and books,

O these are magic seeds!

They kill whate'er in man was proud, And nourish what is wise,

And feed the humblest of the crowd With manna from the skies.

Ay, dreary days of high-bred scorn,
You've somewhile died away,—
And better were the fool unborn,
Who tries it on to-day :
Ay, wintry nights of low-bred sin,
You've stolen out of sight,

And all things base, without, within,
Are scatter'd by the light.

RICH AND POOR.

Take copy of the small, ye great!

In all that's free and frank;

Add cordial ways to courteous state,
And heartiness to rank :

Take copy of the great, ye small,

In all that's soft and fair, Honourable to each and all, And gentle everywhere!

The gracious source of all our wealth

In body, mind, or store,

Pours life and light and hope and health
Alike on rich and poor;

And though so many covet ill

Some neighbour's happier state, They little heed how kind a Will Has fix'd them in their fate.

Think, justly think, what liberal aids

Invention gives to all,

While Truth shines out, and Error fades,

Alike for great and small;

How well the rail, the post, the press,

Help universal Man,

The highest peer, and hardly less

The humblest artizan.

Religion, like an angel, stands

To solace every mind;

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And Science, with her hundred hands,
Is blessing all mankind;

All eyes may see a beauteous sight,
All ears may hear sweet sound,
And sage-desired seeds of light
Are broadcast all around.

Lo, the high places levelling down,
The valleys filling up!

Magnates, who ought to wear a crown,
Drain Charity's cold cup;

While Industry, of humblest birth, With Prudence well allied, O'ertops the topmost peaks of earth,

The palaces of pride.

Be humble then, ye mighty men!
Be humble, poor of earth!

Be God alone exalted, when

He speaks by plague and dearth! Let each be grateful, friendly, true,And that will be the plan,

To make of peer, and peasant too,
A truly Noble Man!

THE SABBATH.

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THE SABBATH.

(A BALLAD FOR THE LABOURER.)

SIX days in the week do I toil for my bread,
And surely should feel like a slave,
Except for a Providence fix'd overhead
That hallow'd the duties it gave;

I work for my mother, my babes, and my wife,
And starving and stern is my toil,-
For who can tell truly how hard is the life
Of a labouring son of the soil?

A debt to the doctor, a score at the shop,
And plenty of trouble and strife,-

While backbreaking toil makes me ready to drop,
Worn out and aweary of life!

O, were there no gaps in the month or the year,
No comfort, or peace, or repose,

How long should I battle with miseries here,
How soon be weigh'd down by my woes!

Six days in the week, then, I struggle and strive,
And, O! but the seventh is blest;
Then only I seem to be free and alive,
My soul and my body at rest :

I needn't get up in the cold and the dark,
I needn't go work in the rain,

On that happy morning I wait till the lark

Has trill'd to the sunshine again!