Can I, an ancient friend, pass by,
Who even to-day still greets my eye,
And brings up among modern men
The dearly cherish'd past again?
'Tis far, far back, I scarce can fix
The date, perhaps, 'twas '26,
When he, in Huntly, on a farm,
Once tried his unaccustomed arm
At work for which 'twas never made,
In that most independent trade.
He left Bucolics, trees, and all,
And moved away to Montreal,
To teach, as better him did suit,
"The young idea how to shoot."
And many a youth has blest the day
Of Alexander Workman's sway.
I'll say no more, lest I should be
Accused, perhaps, of flattery.
'Twould scarcely here be out of place
If Edward Griffin's smiling face
I should present in colors true—
In good Samaritanic view;
The patron of Joe Lee, whose name
Is known to histrionic fame;
Who play'd at Shylock on the stage,
When tragedy was more the rage
Than in this sad degenerate age.
And where art thou, my friend, George Story,
A man of yore, though not yet hoary?
The even tenor of thy way
Hast thou maintain'd for many a day;
They tell us within human range
That mortal things are given to change,
It may be so, yet thou art still
But little changed, though down the hill
Quietly gliding, still thou hast
An air about thee of the past;
Who knew thee thirty years ago
At the first glance would know thee now.
And Thomas Story—modest man—
As well as any other can,
Or, he may think, much better too,
Suit habit's taste in me or you,
In coat artistically made
According to that ancient trade,
Which had its rise in solitude,
Where Adam lived before the flood—
Is still Tom Story of the past,
Long may his life's fair measure last
And Sandy Mowat, here's a line
To thee, in memory of lang syne;
Fond wert thou of the target ground—
Fond of a rifle and a hound;
Dost thou remember Bearbrook's brink
And the old shanty without "chink,"
Or door to stop the piercing gale
That whirled along the snow-clad vale,
Where Peter McArthur, you and I,
Once slept beneath a wintry sky;
While through the roof in splendor bright
We saw the guardians of the night—
The snow-storm of the coming day—
The savage wounded buck at bay—
And how we lost and found our way?
Dost thou forget the strain of glee
That from deep slumber's arms roused thee?
Dost thou remember who did ride
The bounding wounded buck astride,
And whose the crimsoned hunting knife
That ended there the quarry's life.
Then "Eastman's Springs" were little known
To few beyond we three alone.
And Malcolm Ferguson, oh why,
Should memory's record pass thee by?
An artist of the gentle trade,
By whom Bytonians were arrayed
Most fashionably in old times.
When dross among the social crimes
Held not the rank which modern art
Hath given it in fashion's mart.
An agile fireman, danger-proof,
As ever struggled up a roof,
Or to the midnight summons sprang
When the alarm signal rang;
As cat or squirrel of active limb—
A "ridge-pole" was a street to him.
The old extinguishers of flame
Will well remember Malcolm's name.
As the long past I wander through,
Michael O'Reilly comes to view;
A man of stature, somewhat brief,
Who largely dealt of old in beef,
In that cheap time when scanty coin
Was ample for the fattest loin,
Rounds, chops, and beefsteaks were not gold
In those delightful days of old.
'Tis true the tallow-candle's light
Was all the ray that cheered the night,
Before our first assizes term
Was dignified by actual sperm—
The real thing—no "Belmont's" then
Were found among the sons of men.
Another name remembrance brings,
The muse of old John Darcey sings,
In numbers almost a magician—
A wonderful arithmetician,
Whose mode with all others "collided,"
Who added, multiplied, divided,
And even substracted by such rules
As ne'er were known or taught at schools.
No learned professor of the birch
E'er left John Darcey in the lurch;
No pedagogue was ever able
To con his arithmetic table.
And Edward Darcey—no relation—
Except in name, to old Equation,
A son of Crispin, a sole nailer,
Who owned a curly dog called "Sailor"—
A noble, liver-hue'd retriever,
Who'd make one almost a believer
In canine intellectual merit
Which dogs as well as men inherit.
Louis Pinard, in ancient times,
Was always ready with the "dimes"—
Excuse the slang—which a disgrace is—
At gallopping or trotting races,
And A.P. Lesperance beside him,
A good horse kept, and well could ride him,
When horsemanship was more in fashion
Than sitting still and laying lash on,
In four-wheeled vehicle at ease,
Which modern Jehuism doth please.
And Galipean, who kept good whiskey,
And old Jamaica to make frisky
The visitors to his retreat,
On the east side of Sussex Street,
Close to the very spot, I think,
Where now James Thompson deals in mink,
Otter and other kinds of fur,
Prime and unprime, without demur.
'Twas at this inn one afternoon
In '33, the month was June,
That Martin Hennessy once tried
On horseback up the stairs to ride.
And would have done so, but for this,
A pistol shot that did not miss,
Which gave him, oh, most foul disgrace!
A charge of buckshot in the face,
Which spoiled his beauty without doubt.
And knocked his "dexter peeper" out.
And E.S. Lyman, old cathartic!
With lengthy form and features arctic—
Dispenser of blisters, pills and potions,
Boluses and specific lotions,
And panaceas in variety
To cram the ailing to satiety—
Succeeded Auld, Apothecary,
A scientific quoiter, very,
Who righted phisiologic faults
With Calomel and Epsom Salts,
And made prescriptions up with skill
Of aqua pura, which doth still
Maintain its place as chief ingredient,
In every mixture, quite expedient,
He kept his drug shop at the spot
Where hospitality has got
Her Shiboleth from land of Tara,
Under the rule of Pat. O'Meara!
And Richard Kneeshaw, man of science,
Who placed in reason such reliance,
As made him almost think salvation
Could not be found in revelation:
Chemist and druggist by profession,
He held within his mind's possession
Vast stores of knowledge, ever breeding
Ideas new from constant reading.
And Henry Bishoprick, a wise man,
Who acted druggist and exciseman,
And seized at loaded pistol's muzzle
Contrabandistas, who could puzzle
An ordinary Gager's cunning
When tea and whiskey they were running.
And William Henry Baldwin, too,
Who first appeared in public view
At the old Albion, where in state,
Bob Graham rules the roast of late;
Son of a U.E. Loyalist,
Who found his way out of the mist
Republican which played such tricks
With loyalty in '76,
He came, as many another came
To Canada, in Britain's name,
To live his life and die beside
The flag that's still his country's pride!
Thomas Gillespie Burns, "T.G.,"
I have not quite forgotten thee;
Thou wert an early importation
From Erin's Isle, and thy migration
Did little damp in heart or hand
Thy love for the old parent land,
Who's green is greener in its pride
Of bloom than all the world beside!
Thy boast has always been true blue—
To British institutions true!
And William Rogerson, 'tis well
That I of him should something tell—
A tall, majestic, looking son
Of Caledonia—he was one,
In early times, who carried on
The lumber traffic with a will,
When such names as Price and McGill
Were standards in the staple trade
Which Bytown Ottawa hath made.
And William Dunning, who kept store
The first old County Gaol before,
Where now the Albion proudly stands
And flourishes in other hands,
And Clements Bradley, who lived near
The border long ago, was here;
An agriculturist of yore,
Who settled near the Rideau's shore,
And opened 'mid primeval trees
A pathway for the passing breeze.
Full half a century has flown
Since the first tree he tumbled down,
And yet his strength seems still unspent,
His step is firm, his back unbent.