Come, now, my gentle Muse, once more,
Come with me to the days of yore,
And let us wake, with friendly hand
The memories of that distant land,
The past; and while thy minstrel weaves
A chaplet from the Sybil leaves
Of recollection—let the light
Of truth upon his lines be bright.
May he with reverential tread
Approach the dwellings of the dead,
Seeking for some sweet flower of good
Within their solemn solitude:
And if he finds in fadeless bloom
Around some well remember'd tomb,
Some cherish'd record of the past
Which has defied time's rudes blast,
And down futurity's deep vale
Shed fragrance on the passing gale,
Love's labor, then, the task will be,
My gentle Muse, for thee and me.
'Mongst those of old remember'd well,
John Wade doth in my memory dwell,
A wit of most undoubted feather—
A mighty advocate of leather—
A solemn man too, when required.
With healing instincts deeply fired,
He with claw-instrument could draw
Teeth deftly from an aching jaw,
And ready was his lancet too
When nothing short of blood would do;
Relieved he many a racking pain,
When shall we see his like again?
And William Tormey, stern and straight,
A man who came ere '28,
Chief of the men who kept the fire on
And hammer'd the strong bands of iron,
Which first securely bound together
The old lock gates through wind and weather,
The old Town Council minutes bear
The record that his name is there.
And Thomas Hanly, loud the praise
I gave him in my early days
For bread, that Eve might tempted be
To eat, had it grown on that tree,
On which hung the forbidden fruit
Whose seed gave earth's ills their sad root.
Friend Tom dealt in the rising leaven
In the old days of '27,
With "Jemmy Lang," an ancient Scot,
Who ne'er the barley bree forgot;
An honest, simple man was he
As ever loved good company;
And Tom McDermott, while I twine
The names of yore in song of mine,
Can I forget a name like thine?
Ah, no! although thine ashes rest
Beneath our common mother's breast,
No name more spotless doth engage
My muse, or grace my tuneful page.
Stern Matthew Connell, fiery Celt,
Below the present Bywash dwelt,
Beside John Cowan, o'er whose grave
The grass of '32 did wave.
No man got in a passion faster
Than did old Bytown's first postmaster;
Yet was he a most upright man,
And well the old machinery "ran"
When mail bags came on horse's back
Before we had a railway track,
And their arrival on each morn
Was signall'd by an old tin horn.
Peace to his shade! in '32
The cholera Matthew Connell slew.
Kind reader, let me pass awhile,
Beside the "Bywash," deem'd so vile,
Then called "the Creek"—though now the pest—
The festering miasmatic nest
Of Boards of Health, who dread infection—
My very heart's sincere affection
Clings fondly to that old creek still;
For oft in boyhood's joyous thrill,
O'er its ice-bosom in wild play
I chased the ball in youth's bright day.
With young companions loved and dear!
How few of such, alas! are here
To listen to the bye-gone story
Of the old Creek's vanish'd glory!
'Twixt "wooden lock" and Rideau Street,
Young Bytown oft was wont to meet—
To struggle in the "shinny game;"
Ah! then it was a place of fame,
Full sixty feet from shore to shore,
While now it measures scarce a score;
Modern improvement has prevail'd—
Its fair proportions are curtail'd;
Its banks filled in, more space to gain.
Its stream, by many a filthy drain,
Which once was rapid, always clear,
Changed into color worse than beer,
To cool and icy scowling scan,
Of rigid, total abstinence man.
Gone is its fair renown of yore,
It's schoolboy battles all are o'er,
Which made it then a "Campo Bello"
For many an embryo daring fellow—
Too young to know what men of sense
Have called the art of self-defence;
There buttons flew, from stitching riven,
Black eyes and bloody noses given—
Even conflicts national took place,
Among old Bytown's youthful race.
Why not? for children bigger grown
I rave sometimes down the gauntlet thrown
For cause as small, and launch'd afar
The fierce and fiery bolts of war,
Simply to find out which was best.
Caesar or Pompey by the test.
In those past combats "rich and rare"
Luke Cuzner always had his share.
For Luke in days of auld lang syne
Did most pugnaciously incline,
Never to challenge slack or slow,
And never stain'd by "coward's blow."
The Joyces too, Mick, John and Walter,
In battle's path did seldom falter,
But "Jimmy," in those days of grace
Held a peacemaker's blessed place,
Nor has he wander'd far astray
From the same calm and tranquil way.
The belt was worn by any one
Who had the latest battle won,
'Till Simon Murphy's springing bound
Lit on that ancient battle ground,
And from that hour he was King
Of our young pugilistic ring!
But here I'd like to pause a minute
And go to Hull—there's something in it
That to the hour of life's December
I shall endeavor to remember.
The old "Columbian" schoolhouse, where
In childhood's dawn I did repair;
It was a famous strict old school
Sway'd by the ancient birchen rule,
The place where youthful ignorance brought us,
The spot where famed James Agnew taught us;
A Scot was he of good condition,
A man of nerve and erudition,
A strict disciplinarian, who
Knew well what any boy could do,
And woe to him who did not do it
For he got certain cause to rue it.
No sinner ever dreaded Charon,
Nor was the mighty rod of Aaron,
By ancient Egypt's magic men,
In Pharoah's old despotic reign,
More feared as symbol of a God
Than was by us James Agnew's rod;
With it he batter'd arithmetic,
Lore practical and theoretic
Latin too, and English grammar
Into your head, a perfect "crammar,"
Was Agnew's most persuasive rod,
Nor less his magisterial nod.
How would such stern tuition suit
In our Collegiate Institute?
Amongst the unforgotten few
Who rise to memory's magic view,
While winging on her backward flight,
My schoolfellow, Alonzo Wright,
Appears a lad of slender frame,
I cannot say he's still the same,
Except in soul, for that sublime
Has soar'd above the touch of time,
And in "immortal youth" appears,
Unchanged by circumstance or years,
A good fellow, this was his name
At school, methinks he's still the same.
May he give powers of swift volition
To all who offer opposition
To him in the approaching "scrimmage,"
For what is but a brazen image
At best, a people's approbation,
Which sometimes with the situation,
Changes as egg in hand of wizard,
Or color in chameleon lizard.
There too, are Job and David Moore,
Bill Northgraves mentioned not before,
Who in the little school-house red
On early education fed.
And Thomas Curtis Brigham, too,
Lennox and Christopher in view,
Arise before my sight,
Strongly defined in memory's light,
And Wright both Ruggles and Tiberias,
And Wyman who was seldom serious,
Poor fellow! in life's manly bloom
He slept in an untimely tomb.
Time fails me, or I fain would tell
Of many more remembered well,
But end I here my present strain
Till memory wakes it up again.