Near where the George Street market stood
Lived William Northgraves, then a good
And skilful watch-maker, who's chime
Did regulate the march of time,
And Arthur Hopper, sporting blade,
Was in the same time serving trade,
Though guiltless of the modern tricks
Of time serving in politics;
He made gold rings for bridal matches,
As well as cleaned and mended watches.
And last of old watchmakers three,
I mention mild Maurice Dupuis,
Who's even tenor ne'er did vary
From the upright and exemplary,
At Corcoran's corner, now the stand
For carters, very near at hand,
Dwelt one who's unforgotten name
Is worthy of poetic fame;
With scientific sleight he bled,
And then anatomized the dead.
With hand so wonderfully skill'd,
Victims delighted to be killed,
Came willingly to yield up life,
An offering to Tom Hickey's knife;
So high his sense of honor ran,
The butcher in the gentleman
Merged so completely, you'd be lost,
Which in him to admire the most;
By ancient poets it was sung
Those whom the gods love all die young,
Tom Hickey's early death did prove
That those die young whom all men love.
I must not here omit the name
Of Heubach from my roll of fame,
He passes under memory's scan
A simple minded honest man,
With manners quiet, mild and bland,
An emigrant from fatherland.
And Joseph Nadeau, far and near
Famed 'mongst the boys for good _La Tir_
And old John Cochran stern and tall,
Immoveable as a stone wall!
Staunch to his principles stood he,
No matter what the cost might be;
Oh! for a few of his old stamp,
To trim with fire the waning lamp!
And Louis Grison, worthy man,
In "Maville's village," first began
His little trade, which wider spread
As ancient Bytown went ahead.
Two rows of houses built of wood,
Near Enoch Walkley's brewery stood
With narrow little street between,
This was the village that I mean.
Then William Graham kept the peace
Of all the town with perfect ease;
Potato whiskey then was cheap,
And we had little peace to keep.
Such monstrous practice was unknown
As kicking when a man was down,
Though many a stunning blow was felt,
None ever struck below the belt;
The ring was form'd, and fair play
Reign'd without challenge at each fray,
And never yet, that I could hear,
Did constable e'er interfere,
Or even think that amongst crimes
Rank'd this brave pastime of old times.
Then Martin Hennessy was young,
A Hercules with sinews strung;
You might as well an anvil "lick,"
Or stand against a horse's kick
And fear not shattered rib or jaw
As risk a smash from Martin's paw.
I've seen him in the days of yore
His fist crash through a panel door.
Martin soon ran his wild race out,
For "Doctor" Whitney with a "clout"
Of a great bludgeon laid him out
Heady for _post mortem_ and bier,
Thus ended Martin's rough career.
Ah! those were happy halcyon days,
Well worthy of immortal lays.
Here I must summon from the band
Of the departed shadowy land
George Parsons, and his name entwine
In this poetic wreath of mine.
Beside the creek his name I meet
On the west side of William street,
Twas called "the lane," ere legislation
Gave it its present designation;
Admirers of steeds fleet and game
Will not forget George Parson's name.
And I would be worse than a Turk,
Did I forget George Robert Burke,
A man who mingled not in strife,
Nor ever did in all his life
An act to cause a blush of shame
On any face that bears his name!
Nor can I Archie Foster pass,
Too soon departed, too, alas!
A man of feelings warm and kind--
A friend who never left behind
A friendly act, if in his power
To act the friend in trouble's hour,
Ah! 'twas a melancholy day
When Archie Foster passed away.
And now a man with learning's grace
And mildness pictured in his face
Stands forth in retrospection's ray
As if it was but yesterday,
It is the good Hugh Hagan's shade
Who's precepts many a scholar made.
Nor would my reminiscent eye
While scanning erudition's sky,
Fail to perceive through cloud and storm
Friend James Maloney's stately form--
A fixed star in the Teacher's heaven
Since the old days of '27,
When learning's every art and rule,
In the old Mathematic School,
According to education laws
He taught--and ne'er forget the "taws."
The handle was just two feet long,
And well he trounced the noisy throng!
At the west border of the swamp
Where cedars grew mid mosses damp,
Just at the corner where to-day
Ben Huckell doth his name display,
In other days dwelt William May,
A member of the old "Alliance"
Which easily put at defiance
The conflagrations that were seen
"Like Angel's visits far between,"
For Bytown then was almost free
From an Insurance Company!
Poor fellow! by a sudden stroke
Death's gloomy shadow o'er him broke,
Upon that well remembered day--
When the old town was wild and gay.
From verdant vale to sunny ridge,
On which the new Suspension Bridge
Was opened--and crowds congregated
To see it then "inaugurated."
To use a word from Uncle Sam,
The concourse was a perfect jam.
'Twas built by Alexander Christie,
From the land of mountains misty;
And though the whirlwind and the storm
For years have revelled on its form--
Though ponderous loads for many a year
Have passed it o'er from from far and near,
It stands in strength unshaken still,
A monument of art and skill;
Long may the builder dash the tide
Of Jordan's swelling surge aside;
And when the lot of all mankind
Overtakes him, may he safely find
A bridge across to Canaan's shore,
To pass in peace death's valley o'er.
While rambling backwards up life's hill,
I meet the stern Paul Joseph Gill,
A man with much tuition fraught,
Who youth at the old creek side taught,
Where Thomas Dowsley doth display,
His maps of land for sale to-day.
Paul Joseph Gill could with a frown
Keep juvenile offenders down;
His ruler flat I can't forget,
My fingers seem to tingle yet,
As recollection o'er me brings
That ruler amongst other things,
Which come around me link by link,
While of the vanished past I think.
John Frost, too, rises up before
My vision of the time that's o'er;
He built upon foundation damp,
In Lower Town's great cedar swamp,
Which stretched from Sussex Street to where
That engineering structure fair--
The fond-admiring eye doth greet,
Spanning the stream at Ottawa Street.
And "Sandy" Graham, strange it is,
That I thus far his name should miss,
While tracing from the scenes gone by
Each unforgotten memory
Sandy was, aye, a joyous blade,
And many a good stroke of trade
He with commercial wisdom made,
In other times when he was young,
And Yankee silver round was flung
With lavish hand by low and high
In the good days of Colonel By.
And William Hunton, who came late,
If I am right, in '28,
And many a good quart of whiskey,
To make the old Bytonians frisky--
And many a pound of Twankay tea
And Muscovado vended he,
For Howard and Thompson in the time
When cash was plenty and trade prime.
Friend Tom a little later came,
A youth then of quite slender frame.
In form he's something still the same--
Though time has taken from his heel
The spring it used of old to feel.
And streaked his locks with silver, too,
Which long withstood all time could do,
Yet in the dream that's passed away
I see Tom Hunton of to-day.