John Cobb, I'll take a glance at thee,
Firm standard of Free Masonry!
Mine eye delights to rest upon
Thy iron frame, old "Uncle John."
If honesty and simple truth
E'er "flourished in Immortal youth,"
Where time can ne'er their glories rob,
They rest with thee, my friend, John Cobb!
And Dudley Booth, what shall I say
Of this strange mortal passed away?
His was a genius burning bright
With brilliant and uncertain light—
Proud in inventive dignity,
And dark in inmate mystery,
It flickered only, when sublime,
It might have left a light for time,
And wondering mortals to admire,
Tis gone! I saw its flame expire.
And John R. Stanley was among
Old Bytown's well remembered throng,
Whom memory's tuneful measure bears
Back from the shades of other years.
R.W. Cruice in ancient days
Was fond of mirth and sporting ways;
I had almost forgot to tell
How he on horseback cut a swell,
And made a fleet and daring rush
At Barry's hunt and won "the brush,"
When sportsmen gathered full of glee
Around the famed J.P., M.D.
And here diverging from my road
Into a little episode,
I'll tear at once with gesture brief
From memory's book a comic leaf,
A tale from cobweb's volume hoary
Of this Sangrado in his glory,
Many will recollect the story.
Edward Barry, grave J.P.,
Sometimes was given to a spree,
Which interfered with the precision
Of magisterial decision.
So Edward Barry jumped the hedge
And took the frigid temperance pledge;
But soon the Justice of the Peace
Found himself often ill at ease;
Pains through his gastric regions ran,
Too hard even for a temperance man.
Then Barry M.D., in a trice,
Gave Barry J.P. an advice,
After a careful diagnosis,
Which placed him on a bed of roses,
And eased his pains beyond description—
A dose of brandy the prescription—
Oft as required to be repeated—
With which the learned J.P. was treated;
And history affirms that he
Oft took the prescribed remedy.
John Cameron, oft called "Black John,"
Comes o'er my dream of old, as one
Who should not now forgotten be
In this memorial strain by me,
In days of yore, his true-nosed hounds
To the Chaudiere with certain bounds,
Oft chased the anther'd buck before
Their deep-mouthed yells to Ottawa's shore.
He was a sportsman keen and true,
Who dearly loved the "view halloo!"
And Graves, who near the old Scotch Kirk
Dwelt 'neath the shadow of the "birk;"
And Isaac Cluff appears in view,
A loyalist, both staunch and true;
James "Kennedy, the carter," too,
Who the first truck through Bytown drew
With the assistance of a horse,
I mean, to be exact, of course.
And "old Ben. Rathwell," now I've hit on,
A true and honest hearted Briton,
As ever crossed Atlantic's wave
To found a home and find a grave.
And William Colter now doth rise
Before my retrospective eyes,
A saddler far from democratic—
Professor most aristocratic,
In art which claims the highest feather
Among the fashioners of leather;
An active springing step had he
As now his form appears to me;
Early he went to that far bourne
"From whence no travellers return."
Thomas M. Blasdell, step this way,
And tell me how you feel to-day?
You thought I'd pass and let you go,
Old twisted groove! but 'tis not so,
Like charcoal, brimstone and salpetre.
I'll touch you off now in short metre.
'Tis long since first your eye, my man,
Along the rifle barrel ran;
The "crotch" or "globe" was all the same,
If you could only see the game.
Or the "bulls-eye," the missile flew
Into its centre straight and true,
In the old days when practiced eye
Was light, shade and trajectory.
Does your keen eye obey your will,
Is your hand quite as steady still
As when you knocked the turkey's o'er,
At twenty rods in days of yore?
My blessing day and night upon
The memory of the time that's gone.
And Sergeant Major Ritchie, there
He stands before my vision, where
In youth I used to see him stand
On Barrack Hill with cane in hand.
For many a year ere death's disaster
He held the post of Barrack Master,
And amongst people who reflected
Most highly always was respected.
I had almost forgotten one
Who's name should not be left alone
In dark oblivion's envious shade
While I the silent past invade—
To light up the forgotten gloom;
To rescue from time's early tomb
And touch with friendly hand, and give
To fading memories power to live.
'Mongst men of enterprising fame,
I can't pass George Buchanan's name;
He built our first old timber slide,
Down which the red pine cribs did glide;
And afterwards with strength and skill,
And an indomitable will,
At the great Rapids of the Chats,
Suspended nature's changeless laws,
And by an artificial path
Triumphed o'er the cataract's wrath!
While standing quietly on shore,
Watching the freight the current bore,
A sudden crash from careless oar
Ended his enterprising life,
And made a widow of his wife.
The public mourned, its great heart bled,
With genuine sorrow for the dead.
'Tis but as yesterday to me,
The history of that tragedy.
Ere to the fair green now I go,
I'll stir up the old "Buffalo."
John Heney, who his mark has made
In speculation's shifting trade,
And built up with both brick and stone,
Memorials, which, when he is gone,
In Ottawa will securely stand,
Proofs of his enterprising hand.
Some years ago in learned debate,
In Council Hall he sat in state.
And in his record there you'll find,
Nothing unfriendly or unkind.
And while as gently I jog on,
I cannot, pass by "honest John!"
"Shaun Rhua," designating name,
Who from the County Cavan came,
And in the Upper Town first started.
Young, enterprising, and light hearted.
At Civic Board for many a year,
For By Ward doth his name appear;
And I can say, who ought to know,
As far as my researches go,
No public act has stain left on
The well-earned name of "honest John!"
Turk, Jew, and heathen all the same,
Speak kindly of John Heney's name.
Mark Bishoprick has gone at last,
An aged pilgrim from the past,
Burdened with many years he stood
Almost alone in solitude,
A record of an age that's gone,
Who's lengthened shadow rested on
The present, ere the distant light
Sunk into everlasting night.