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In this learned age of maxims broad and deep,
When men wake famous after one night's sleep;
When the forked lightnings, from the sky bro't down,
Carry the various news the earth around--
In these fast days of wonder and of steam,
Even society is one vast machine.


Words cannot tell the many parts that meet,
To make this mighty structure all complete,
Nor volumes give the rules that must be known,
E'er this charmed circle can become your home.
One thing we'll speak of--just one simple fact
That guides the wheels and keeps them on the track;
'T is all important in the mystic plan,
So mark it well now--"Money makes the man!"


Talk not of homage humble worth should claim,
Proud lips will curl at mention of the name;
Nor yet of flowers, within some shaded place,
Whose beauty might some better station grace.
No, you must have, or seem to have, a purse,
That spending much--for that is not the worse;
Your clothes the "latest cut" must all be made,
E'en tho' the tailor's bill is long unpaid.
Be sure you stop at the "first" house in town,
Altho' for board your trunk is levied on;
To be a pet, make all the show you can,
Keeping in mind that--Money makes the man!


And you, young man of fashionable life,
When you conclude to find yourself a wife,
Don't choose a maid who ever used her hand,
Except to hold bouquets or flirt a fan.
Yound ladies, too, who would a husband gain,
Look out for money--never mind the brain;
For now-a-days, as all must understand,
Not intellect, but--Money makes the man!


'T is stubborn truth, tho' it should be denied,
Society is rife with silly pride,
And many a warm, aspiring soul is crushed
E'er manhood's noontide, even to the dust;
While many another who has dyed their soul
In sin, has glossed it with their glittering gold,
Indulging in the darkest, deepest guile,
Yet meeting in the throng the welcome smile,
Which proves it true--deny it if you can--
Not worth or wit, but--Money makes the man!


But man's no less a man because he's poor,
Nor woman lovely less, tho' quite obscure;
No villain less the foe of good, tho' proud
He walks, the favored one of fashion's crowd;
And real worth, less noble sure is not,
If it be uncommended and forgot;
And just as bright is virtue's chaplet now,
Tho' it may rest above a poor man's brow;
For in the eyes of Him who hearts doth scan,
'T is purity, not--Money makes the man!


Alike for lofty and for lowly spread
The same sky's changing, shifting blue o'erhead;
For poor and rich alike the flowers bloom,
And wave as sadly over both their tombs.
Oh! when within the "great beyond" we stand,
Not by his money will God judge the man!