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Up, up, sons of Freedom,

Arm, arm, for the fight! Your country is calling,

Arise in your might; Rebellion and Treason,

The bloody flag waves; Then onward to freedom,

Or on to your graves!

The shades of your fathers,

Still hovering round, The fields of their glory,

Start up at the sound. The spirit of Washington

Stalks from the grave, And calls on his children,

Their country to save.

From every true bosom,

There bursts the wild cry— We'll strike for the Union,

We'll conquer or die! And where is the coward,

Who trembles, or fears These slave hunting pirates,

These old buccaneers 1

Her arm for the combat,

The gallant North bares; By the Great God of Battles,

She solemnly swears, The foot of no Rebel

Shall soil the green sod, Where Freedom, fair Freedom!

First fixed her abode.

Where backwoodsmen triumphed,

O'er tyrant and king; There still the long rifle,

For freedom can ring; The whip, and the shackle,

They shall not remain,

From the flag of our Union,
We'll wipe out the stain.

New York! Pennsylvania!

The war trump do blow;
New Jersey is rising,

To rush on the foe!
The hills of New Hampshire,

Have heard the war sound! And the green peaks of Vermont,.

The echoes rebound!

And old Massachusetts

Responds to the call; Connecticut! Maine! and

Rhode Island and all!
Beneath Freedom's banner,

Now waving on high,
They march like their fathers,

To conquer or die.



From Sir Archibald Alison. We have always taken a deep interest in Canada, and will henceforth take a deeper interest, from knowing that it contains a citizen so truly inspired with the genius of poetry as the author of these beautiful Lyrics."

From Mrs. Moodie. "Had McLachlan's volume appeared with the name of Burns or Motherwell attached to it, some of his pieces would have been hailed as among the finest productions of poetic genius."

From Professor George. "We do not know whether Mr. McLachlan is what is called a learned man, but we are sure that no one but a man of genius could employ language as we find it employed in these poems. It will, we think, admit of no question that Mr. McLachlan is by far our best and sweetest singer. The address to Garibaldi is, all national predilections apart, equal to 'Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,' and we cannot help thinking that were this soul-stirring lyric turned into good Italian, and sung through the streets of Rome and Venice, it would be no feeble auxiliary to the cause of liberty in Italy."

From Thomas D. McGee, M.P.P. "Before I leave this topic of our literary indebtedness to Scotland, let me ask any one who now hears me who loves ardently this new country of ours, if he had the choice of bestowing on it, by an effort of his will, a brilliant soldier, or an astute statesman, or a great poet—one who would feed the life of our young nationality out of the perennial springs of his own spirit,—would he not rather endow us with such a poet now, and let the conqueror and the statesmen come when time calls them? if so, then why do we not hail every harbinger of our new day of native literature which appears? Why must we always make our discoveries at second hand of the genius in our midst? Within two or three years Mr, McLachlan has published a volume of poems containing pieces not unworthy—if I may presume to say so—of TannahiQ or Motherwell. Mr. Charles Sangster has published a second collection which has won a warm welcome abroad; and we have in the author of "Saul," a working mechanic who has been hailed in England as a true poet, while here his very name continues unknown. It is by extending to such men as McLachlan, Sangster, and Heavysedge a timely welcome at their own doors, that Canada is to make her way in letters as in commerce and self-government."

From the Scottish American Journal, Wondering why we have not heard from Bard McLachlan, though we hope his best excuse is being too busily engaged lecturing in Canada, and rousing up the Scottish heart with song and elequence. We wont forget him, and take the liberty to use his " Mary White," a sweet ditty that will, after Alec's gray pow has lain lang, lang in some wild Western Canadian kirkyard, be repeated round a thousand lowly firesides like what his ain is now, and a kindly word or two spoken over the " ane that's gane."

From the Glasgow Citizen. Mr. McLachlan, the author of this volume, has breathed his hopes and fears, and fine imaginations into tangible verse. Many of the lyrics are ably written and almost sing themselves while you read them.

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