the scourge has felt,
Then to God thou'st raised the cry
That the tyrant's heart he'd melt
Ere thou should'st in tortures die.

Injured sister, well we know
That thy lot in life is hard;
Sad thy state of toil and wo,
From all blessedness debarred;
While each sympathizing heart
Pities thy forlorn distress;
We would sweet relief impart,
And delight thy soul to bless.

And what lies within our power
We most cheerfully will do,
That will haste the blissful hour
Fraught with news of joy to you;
And when comes the happy day
That shall free our captive friend,
When Jehovah's mighty sway
Shall to slavery put an end:

Then, dear sister, we with thee
Will to heaven direct our voice;
Joyfully with voices free
We'll in lofty strains rejoice;
Gracious God! thy name we'll bless,
Hallelujah evermore,
Thou hast heard in righteousness,
And our sister's griefs are o'er.

Manhood.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

Tune, "Our Warrior's Hearts," page 128.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor, for a' that;
For a' that and a' that;
Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd, for a' that.

What though on homely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray and a' that,
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that;
The honest man tho' e'er so poor,
Is king o' men for a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will, for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the world all o'er
Shall brothers be, for a' that.

Terms explained:--
_Gowd_--gold.
_Hodden_--homespun, or mean.
_Gree_--honor, or victory.

The Poor Voter's Song.

Air, "Lucy Long."

They knew that I was poor,
And they thought that I was base;
They thought that I'd endure
To be covered with disgrace;
They thought me of their tribe,
Who on filthy lucre doat,
So they offered me a bribe
For my vote, boys! my vote!
O shame upon my betters,
Who would my conscience buy!
But I'll not wear their fetters,
Not I, indeed, not I!

My vote? It is not mine
To do with as I will;
To cast, like pearls, to swine,
To these wall