r die.

Ours is not the tented field--
We no earthly weapons wield--
Light and love, our sword and shield,
Truth our panoply.
This is proud oppression's hour;
Storms are round us; shall we cower?
While beneath a despot's power
Groans the suffering slave?

While on every southern gale,
Comes the helpless captive's tale,
And the voice of woman's wail,
And of man's despair?
While our homes and rights are dear,
Guarded still with watchful fear,
Shall we coldly turn our ear
From the suppliant's prayer?

Never! by our Country's shame--
Never! by a Saviour's claim,
To the men of every name,
Whom he died to save.
Onward, then, ye fearless band--
Heart to heart, and hand to hand;
Yours shall be the patriot's stand--
Or the martyr's grave.

THE MAN FOR ME.

Parody by J.N.T. Tucker. Air, "The Rose that all are praising."

[Music]

Oh, he is not the man for me,
Who buys or sells a slave,
Nor he who will not set him free,
But sends him to his grave;
But he whose noble heart beats warm
For all men's life and liberty;
Who loves alike each human form--
Oh that's the man for me,
Oh that's the man for me,
Oh that's the man for me.

He's not at all the man for me,
Who sells a man for gain,
Who bends the pliant servile knee,
To Slavery's God of shame!
But he whose God-like form erect
Proclaims that all alike are free
To think, and speak, and vote, and act,
Oh that's the man for me.

He sure is not the man for me
Whose spirit will succumb,
When men endowed with Liberty
Lie bleeding, bound and dumb;
But he whose faithful words of might
Ring through the land from shore to sea,
For man's eternal equal right,
Oh that's the man for me.

No, no, he's not the man for me
Whose voice o'er hill and plain,
Breaks forth for glorious liberty,
But binds himself, the chain!
The mightiest of the noble band
Who prays and toils the world to free,
With head, and heart, and voice, and vote--
Oh that's the man for me.

PILGRIM SONG.

Words by Geo. Lunt. Air "Troubadour."

[Music]

Over the mountain wave
See where they come;
Storm-cloud and wintry wind
Welcome them home;
Yet where the sounding gale
Howls to the sea,
There their song peals along,
Deep toned and free.
Pilgrims and wanderers,
Hither we come;
Where the free dare to be,
This is our home.

England hath sunny dales,
Dearly they bloom;
Scotia hath