Though strictly not of Bytown fame,
I can't forget John Egan's name,
It well deserves what I can give,
To make it unforgotten live;
For 'mongst the sons of enterprise,
Who rose with Bytown's early rise,
When "Norway Pine" was number one,
John Egan stands almost alone—
The king of the Grand River, then
The Wellington of lumber men
A man of boundless energy,
And vast capacity was he,
All difficulties had to fly,
And cower before his dauntless eye!
Right well may Aylmer mourn and boast
The enterprising son she lost,
Upon the day when from earth's toil
He "shuffled off the mortal coil."
And N.H. Baird, of old was here,
A scientific engineer;
And Finland, the contractor, who
With coach and four the streets drove through,
The grandest carriage of the kind
E'er seen in Bytown—with behind—
In gorgeous and artistic glare,
A lion and an eagle—where
Is friend Perkins? he can still
Remember that old eagle's bill.
And Captain Andrew Wilson, O!
I've got an old sea lion now,
Who saw the flash of Nelson's eye,
Amid the smoke of victory,
Both at Trafalgar and the Nile.
Aye, saw the hero's dying smile
Of triumph, when his cruise was o'er,
And to the vast eternal shore,
Launched forth by death's o'erwhelming gale
His gallant spirit spread its sail!
O'er flowing bowl with might and main,
He fought his battle's o'er again,
Talked of chain shot, and "Stinkpot's" stench,
And hated cordially the French,
Whom he believed were but created
To be by sailors killed and hated
What e'er he was, what passage o'er,
He took to the mysterious shore,
Old Charon never cleft the wave.
Yet with a soul more true and brave!
And Baptiste Homier, when alive,
I think had children twenty-five,
Presided o'er a tavern neat,
On the south side of Rideau street.
A place well known both near and far,
And there John Johnston kept the bar,
Related backward up the stream,
To him who had the lucky dream;
With the old Chief, who in "a fix"
Was found before old '76.
Colonial history has told
The story in the days of old.
The Indian dreamed, the General lost
His uniform, but to his cost
The wily chieftain quickly found
The General's dream, bought solid ground,
And Martin, James, and Darby Keally
From the green land of the "Shillaly."
Richard Fitzsimmons, too, was found,
The Paganini of sweet sound
In days gone by, with memories big,
And well he danced an Irish jig.
Most incomplete would be my tale,
Did I not draw aside the veil,
And bring from distant vistas through,
The ancient fiddler into view.
While strolling downward by the locks,
One of those reminiscent knocks
I felt, which brought my eye before
Another of the men of yore;
I gazed, as the dim shadow neared,
And then before my sight appeared
The recollection of a name,
'Twas Commissary Ashworth came.
And not far off, with business look
And pen in hand o'er ponderous book,
I see another friend of youth
Noted for probity and truth;
'Tis Thomas Donelly, worthy man!
Whom now with memory's eye I scan.
Still as the mist of memory clears,
I meet the men of other years;
Another page I now unfold,
And Captain Bolton I behold,
Or Major Bolton, if you will,
Who lived upon the "Major's Hill,"
Which got his rank and bears it still.
It used to be in days gone by,
"The Colonel's Hill," a rank more high,
And worthy of the ancient trees,
Whose foliage rustled in the breeze,
Where pigeons, in their annual flight,
Were wont by thousands to alight,
O! many a fusilade I've seen,
Of flint locks in its bowers green;
It got the name recorded here,
From Colonel By, who first lived there;
'Twas then a grove of thickest shade,
What civilization's hand hath made,
The Indian, with its withering skill,
It has done for the "Colonel's Hill."
Who comes, so centaur like in grace,
Good spirits pictured in his face?
'Tis Isaac Smith, let truth not vary,
A gentleman from Tipperary,
Beloved by all, 'twere hard to mate him,
He had no enemies to hate him,
His friends were neither scarce nor few
They numbered every soul he knew.
Who e'er remembers Isaac Smith,
Mounted top boots and breeches with,
Upon his stately old black mare
Will recollect a horseman rare.
Christopher Carlton, where art thou?
Come here, old friend, I want thee now
To ramble back with me again
To where of old McPherson and Crane,
And Francis Clemow, too, I think,
Did business at the Basin's brink.
And Bindon Burton Alton, who
Has vanished from terrestial view;
The poet with the flashing eye—
The true born son of minstrelsy!
Who sang so sweetly, memory still
Trembles with the undying thrill.
Which throbbed in melting tones of fire
From Bindon Burton Alton's lyre,
Alas! alas! that such a soul
Should sink a victim to the bowl.
Thomas MacKay, who's worthy name
Is well known even to modern fame.
The worth which honest men revere
Deserves a fitting record here.
With mighty gangs he excavated
The ancient quarry situated
On west side of "the Major's Hill."
Which modern hands find hard to till;
The stones from thence by powder rent
To build the seven Canal Locks went.
The Sappers' Bridge, too, was erected
By blocks of limestone thence ejected.
Like many another rising man.
Mackay for ancient Russell "ran"
To use a term, which means to-day
That he runs best who best can pay!
The declaration found him seated
And his antagonist defeated.
New honors came his name to greet,
A Legislative Councillor's seat
Was given next to Russell's pride,
Clad with which dignity he died.
And no more upright man has e'er
Deserving of the post sat there.
And William Stewart, too, who's name
Elsewhere has graced my roll of fame,
Was as the reader will remember,
For Bytown long ago a member,
Good representative he made,
And his constituents ne'er betrayed,
We were by taxes lightly rated
When Bytown was incorporated,
By the Bill by him presented
When he this village represented
In '47, the year, no other,
When to that stingy old step mother,
The County of Carleton we were tied
And had our temper sorely tried.
This was before Lord Sydenham's reign
Which gave that legislative strain
To our Colonial Constitution,
And made a legal institution,
The Bill Municipal in Legislation,
The often tinkered act which rules the nation.
And James Stewart, a medico
Of the old school of long ago,
A votary of potent pill,
And lancet too for many an ill.
And not a whit more given to kill
His patients, say these truthful rhymes.
Than M.D's of more modern times,
And now I think it only fair
To mention here Doctor O'Hare,
Who of old Bytown formed a part,
And practised the assuaging art
Before the time of Scanlon's tarry,
Before the days of Edward Barry
Who in his person did combine
The medical and legal line,
Exhibiting as his degree
Upon his card J.P.M.D."
He gave to Bytown's sporting men
Such Fox-hunt as we ne'er again
Shall see; ah! 'twas a joyful day,
When Barry with tin horn away,
In glory on "Bob Logie's" back,
Followed the variegated pack
Yelping in chorus o'er the plain,
We'll never see such sport again!
Who would at length the story hear,
Can ask the Sheriff, he was there,
And bravely in his headlong way
Did "Shamrock" carry him that day,
Close in the terror stricken wake
Of Reynard, over bush and brake,
James Fraser, too, can tell the tale,
For he went over hill and dale,
And swamp and fence and ditch and bush,
Foremost in the determined rush.
To get up first and win the brush,
While loud above the yelling din,
Sounded the Doctor's horn of tin,
That hunt the public health to save
Was the best prescription e'er he gave.