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 Friendship'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 noble, free, and powerful State,
A great and glorious Land!

A CALL TO THE SOIREE* OF THE MECHANIC'S INSTITUTE, 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 classes give ladies cash passes,
'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 Institute aid.
The good you may do us'll diffuse itself through us
To the townsfolks of every grade.

* Pronounced as nearly as possible, swarry.