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Give me the man, as a friend and a neighbor,

Who toils at the loom, the spade, or the plough,

Who wins his diploma of manhood by labor,

And purchases wealth by the sweat of his brow.

And that man shall be found 'mid the close ranks of labor,

And be known by the work which his industry rears;

And the chiefdom when won shall be dear to his labor,

And we'll honor the man whatever he

wears.

Judge of a man by the work he is doing,

Speak of a man as his actions demand, Watch well the path that each is pur

suing,

And let the most worthy be chief in the land.

Why should the broadcloth alone be

respected,

And the man be despised who in fustian appears?

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While the angels in heaven have their limbs unprotected,

You can't judge a man by the coat that he wears.

KATE O'SHANE.

GEORGE LINLEY.

THE cold winds of autumn wail mournfully here,

The leaves round me falling are faded and sere;

But chill though the breeze be, and threat'ning the storm,

My heart full of fondness beats kindly
and warm.

Oh! Dennis, dear, come back to me,
I count the hours away from thee,
Return and never part again
From thine own darling-Kate
O'Shane.

'Twas here we last parted, 'twas here we first met,

And ne'er has he caused me one tear of
regret ;

The seasons may alter, their change I defy,
My heart's one glad summer when Dennis

is by.

Oh! Dennis, dear, etc.

THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

J. H. THOMAS.

CHILDHOOD days now pass before me,
Forms and scenes of long ago,
Like a dream they hover o'er me—

Calm and bright as evening glow; Days that knew no shade of sorrow, When my young heart, pure and free, Joyful hail'd each coming morrow, In the cottage by the sea.

Fancy sees the rose-tree twining

Round the old and rustic door, And beneath the wild waves shining, Where I've gathered shells of yore; Here I heard my mother's warning, As she took me on her knee, And I feel again life's morning, In the cottage by the sea.

What, though years have passed above me, Though through fairer scenes I roam, Yet I ne'er shall cease to love thee,

Childhood's dear and happy home;
And when life's long day is closing,
Oh, how happy would it be,
On some faithful breast reposing-
In the cottage by the sea.

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WAIT TILL I PUT ON MY BONNET.
CHARLES SWAIN.

My father loves counting his cattle,
My mother she's fond of her chair
But I-oh! I dote upon moonlight,

;

Sweet walks, and the soft quiet air; The field, with the dew-star upon it,

The scent of the newly-mown hay; Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet, Night's sweeter by far than the day. There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,

But mine's like a gipsy's, so
brown;

A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its

crown.

The day was intended for labor,
But night was a gift to the heart,
When neighbor might visit with neighbor,
And love have his whisper apart.
The morn finds a bloom still upon it,
And eve walks in silver array.

Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day.
There are bonnets with ribbon and
feather, etc.

WILLIE, WE HAVE MISSED YOU.

8. C. FOSTER.

OH! Willie, is it you, dear, safe, safe at home?

They did not tell me true, dear, they said you would not come;

I heard you at the gate, and it made my heart rejoice,

For I knew that welcome footstep and that dear familiar voice.

Making music on my ear in the lonely midnight gloom. Oh,

Willie, we have missed youwelcome, welcome home.

We've longed to see you nightly, but this night of all,

The fire was blazing brightly, and lights were in the hall.

The little ones were up till 'twas ten o'clock and past,

Then their eyes began to twinkle, and they've gone to sleep at last;

But they listened for your voice till they thought you'd never come,

Oh! Willie, we have missed youwelcome, welcome home.

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