Does he toil for a master and home in the skies,
While in Mammon’s vile services flurried!
Pray God that he may never “lift up his eyes”
With the “rich man” who “died and was buried.”
Stafford Cruikshanks.
THE BURGHERS’ GATHERING.
“Fathers, whose sons have bled!
Sons, who have lost your sires,
Brothers, for brothers dead!
Arouse your martial fires.
Hurl retribution on the foe
That laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.”
Hark! ’tis your country’s call
That swells along the sky;
Come forth, brave Burghers all,
Responsive to the cry!
I hear the trumpet from afar;
It tells of strife and blood and war.
See! from each vale and glen
Pour forth the patriot bands—
A host of stalwart men,
True hearts and steady hands.
Let none be absent from that strife
For home, and liberty, and life.
Long has the combat raged,
Its war-path marked with blood;
Oft have the troops engaged
The foe, yet unsubdued,
For yon brave men, it now remains
Yon kloofs to clear,—to scour yon plains.
Arise then in your might!
Let friend encourage friend;
God will maintain the right;
To Him your cause commend.
On Him in humble faith rely,
And rush to certain victory.
Burghers! to arms! to arms!
Haste, mount each trusty steed!
Heed not the Prophet’s charms,
No hostile numbers heed!
On you your country’s hopes repose,
Her wrongs to avenge—to crush her foes.