And here on Sabbath evenings,
Until the stars are out,

With a little one in either hand,
He walketh all about.

For though his garden-plot is small,
Him doth it satisfy;

For there's no inch of all his ground
That does not fill his eye.

It is not with the rich man thus;
For though his grounds are wide,
He looks beyond, and yet beyond,
With soul unsatisfied.

JAMES SIMMONDS.--Music at Brewer and Co.'s.

LISTEN, ye tillers of the soil that gave our fathers

birth,

[on earth. And I will tell you what I deem a poor man's pride I'm proud to toil with willing hands, and earn my daily bread,

[I'm fed;

Yet prouder still, no man can say by ill-got gold I'm proud to see my frugal wife sit smiling by my side, [my bride; Prouder to think 'twas not for gold that she became I'm proud to help a falling friend, and do what good I can, [honest man. Prouder to know the world must say that I'm an

I'm proud to see my children smile as they climb their mother's knee, [blush for me; Prouder to think, when I'm no more, they cannot Humble when night is gliding on to read the holy prayer, [worldly careAnd prove that there's a heavenly balm for every

I'm proud that all my actions and not my words alone, [throne; Will help to guide my children to an everlasting And proud am I that all the world, who see the course I ran,

Must say while bending o'er my grave, "Here lies an honest man."

THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL.
H. RUSSELL.--Music at Davidson's.

WHAT need for all this fuss and strife,
Each warring with his brother?
Why need we, through the crowd of life,
Keep trampling down each other?
Is there no goal that can be won,
Without a squeeze to gain it?
No other way of getting on,
Than scrambling to obtain it?

Oh! fellow men, hear wisdom then,
In friendly warning call;

The world is wide, your claims divide,
There's room enough for all!

What if the swarthy peasant find

No field for honest labour?

He need not idly stop behind

To thrust aside his neighbour.
There is a land with sunny skies,
Which gold for toil is giving,
Where every brawny hand that tries
Its strength can grasp a living.

Oh! fellow men, remember, then,
Whatever chance befal,

The world is wide, where those abide,
There's room enough for all.

PILGRIM SONG.

GEORGE LUNT.

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,

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Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom ; Scotia hath heather hills, sweet their perfume; Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, Native land, native land-home far away!

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Pilgrims and wanderers hither we come, Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" Dim grew the forest-path; onward they trod; Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting to God. Gray men and blooming maids, high rose their song; Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along :

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'Pilgrims and wanderers hither we come,

Where the free dare to be-this is our home!"

Not theirs the glory-wreath, torn by the blast; Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward they pass'd!

Green be their mossy graves! ours be their fame! While their song peals along, ever the same:

"Pilgrims and wanderers hither we come, Where the free dare to be-this is our home!"

WESTWARD HO!

C. JEFFERYS.-Music at C. Jefferys'.
BROTHERS, sisters, ye who toil,
Ply the loom, or till the soil,
From o'ercrowded cities come,
Seek with me a forest home.

There shall labour win its way,
Toiling, thriving, day by day;
Strong in heart and hope let's go
Through the prairies-Westward ho!
Where the giant pine now reigns
We will have our smiling plains;
Rude our first log hut may be,
But from care it shall be free.
Linger not, no more delay,
Heaven itself points out the way;
Strong in heart and hope, then, go
Through the prairies-Westward ho!

I CANNOT LEAVE OLD ENGLAND.
I CANNOT leave old England!
And yet I hear them say,
My lot will still be chequer'd
With sorrow if I stay;
It is not wealth I covet,
I only ask to share

The blessings, few or many,

That Heaven may deign to spare; I grieve to part from many

I never more may see,

But England, dear old England,
It still my home shall be.

But England, &c.

I cannot leave old England!
Yet thickly fall my tears
When parting from the dear ones
I've loved through many years;

Oh, may their lot be brighter
Than mine is doom'd to be!

Yet grant me still contentment-
'Tis wealth enough for me.

Life's sun will soon be setting
Beneath my native sky;
In England, dear old England,
There let me live and die.

In England, &c.

OLD ENGLAND IS OUR HOME.

MARY HOWITT.-Music at Z. T. Purday's.

OLD England is our home, and Englishmen are we; Our tongue is known in every clime, our flag in every

sea.

We will not say that we alone the right of freedom

know;

There's many a land that's free beside, but England made it so! [a shore, The thunder of her battle-ship was heard on many But her healing words of peace are heard above the cannon's s roar. [England! Then let us shout for England, the world-beloved Let every true man shout with us, Hurrah! hurrah! for England!

true!

Mothers and wives of England, be to your birthright [to you! The welfare of the peopled earth is given by Heaven Ye bear no common sons!-the child who on your

breast doth lie,

Though born within a peasant's shed, is meant for doings high;

And let each child of England rejoice that it has

birth,

[earth! For who is born of English blood is powerful on Then let us shout for England, and the great, good

hearts of England!

Let wives and children shout with us, Hurrah! hurrah! for England!