And John McGraves, the chandler, why
Could I so long have passed him by?
By accident I've turned a leaf
Which brings him out in bold relief
A plain and unassuming man
Was John; his candles never ran.
And many in this ancient place
Owed him a debt for a clean face.
William Kipp, too, doth memory greet,
In a small shop on Rideau Street,
A man of gentlemanly kind,
With a well-cultivated mind;
And Commissary Strachan, too,
And Oriel, who had much to do
Paying the debts of Waterloo,
And many another battle field
Where Britons fought and did not yield.
And old John Ring, "good gracious me!"
I had almost forgotten thee--
Thou "Silky" John of other years,
Gone from this dreary vale of tears,
A passing shade, and more's the pity,
For thou wert ever gay and witty.
And Charles Baines, an old time lawyer,
Stood here professional top sawyer;
He owned a bull dog, arrant thief!
Who plundered Agar Yielding's beef;
And when friend Yielding sought for law,
To deal with canine of such maw,
"Why, there is just one simple way,"
Said Charley, "Make the owner pay;"
"I thank you for your judgment brief,"
Said Agar, "pay me for the beef."
"Seven and sixpence worth of prog,
Was bolted by _your_ big bull dog."
"All right," said Charley, like a flash,
And quickly handed o'er the cash;
But, as friend Yielding turned to go,
"Come back," said Charley, "for you owe
Just seven and sixpence for advice,
So hand it over in a trice."
While on the past I now reflect,
I well and clearly recollect
John Wilson, who kept office here,
And afterwards a Judge austere
Of the Queen's Bench or Common Pleas,
Sat with much dignity and ease.
'Tis past, I shall not here relate
Young Robert Lyon's luckless fate,
Nor shall I stir the tomb and tell
Why he an early victim fell
At folly's shrine, as he who bends
A martyr to ill-judging friends,
Will always fall; but end I here
This record of his short career.
Honor, indeed! thy shrine appears,
Surrounded by a sea of tears.
George Shouldice is a man of old,
Henry was too, who 'neath the mould
Lies slumbering in solemn rest--
He many a pompous body drest
With garments fine and quite exotic,
When fashion was not so despotic.
And Charles Friel, an early man
With Bytown's history began,
A man of ready tongue and wit,
A politician who could hit
And sway with eloquence the throng,
Which shouts alike for right or wrong.
Father of Henry James, who died.
Just as his eye of hope descried
The goal he labored to attain--
The honors he had fought to gain.
Tis no uncommon thing to find
A little man with full grown mind:
And 'mongst those who have gone to rest--
Who of their chances made the best
In life's o'er turning changing reel,
I freely rank Henry J. Friel.
And Daniel Fisher, too, is gone,
Of Scotia's children he was one
Who clothed the naked in his day--
That is, the naked who could pay.
I have a friendly feeling yet
For him, for I can ne'er forget
The jacket blue which first I wore
In the old cherished days of yore,
That jacket which I don'd with pride.
Caused me to feel a man beside
The urchin in the pinafore
Which I had just arisen o'er;
In Daniel Fisher's shop 'twas made--
Headquarters of the fig-leaf trade.--
In that most ancient grand device
Which had its rise in Paradise.
I see as on I hurry past,
Pat Duggan, who blew vulcan's blast,
And friend Kehoe, who with hand neat
Fitted the shoes to horse's feet;
And John McGivern, the baker,
And Robert Wanless, harness-maker;
And William Atkins, who is still
Holding his own upon the hill
Of life, though slowly wending
Towards the goal that has no ending;
And Silas Burpee, pious man,
Who in the early ages ran
With drums and belts and wheels complete
A turning mill on old York Street--
Upon the very spot, now thought of
Where gander's head George Shouldice shot off,
With an old smooth-bore, but would not
That day attempt a second shot;
'Twas wise of George, a second shot
Might have consigned to luckless pot,
His marksman's name, and half a shilling,
His renown in the art of killing.
It was a stirring place of trade
Where famous spinning tops were made.
And splendid water power was found
Where now there's nought but solid ground,
Covered with numerous loads of wood,
A costly item bad or good.
In modern times--of old it stood,
Maple at ninety cents a cord,
Just four and six-pence, by my word!
And Julius Burpee, gone! well, well!
He kept the old Rideau Hotel,
Where man and beast could get the best
And truly find the traveller's rest.
Julius still might living be
Were it not for the "barley bree."
And Edward Darcey too, appears.
And Jeffry Nolan, who in years
Gone by, was stout and strong in fight.
And in the conflict always right,
Before the days when frolic's King
McDougall "made Dungarven ring!"
Frank's arm then, as mine, was strong,
None but himself in all the throng
So far the ponderous sledge could hurl,
Until at last with dexterous whirl,
"The school master" defiant came
And walked off champion of the game.
From first to last I've found him true,
McDougal _ciamar tha sibhn dieugh_?
And Charles Sparrow, where, oh, where
Is he who once was Bytown's Mayor,
Ere, J.B. Turgeon took the chair?
Lost 'mid the overwhelming blaze
Of changes new; gone from the gaze
Of public life, like many a man
Who, once for public honors ran.
And George and Robert Lang are gone,
Men of intelligence and tone,
Who held positions marked and high
In Bytown's old society.
Nor has amongst the ancient few
Captain McKinnon from my view--
Though long a tenant of the tomb--
Faded into oblivion's gloom.
If Roderick Stewart now was near,
He'd pour into my listening ear
A tale I would delight to hear,
Of other men of other times,
Who's names may have escaped my rhymes.
The Captain lived, a man discreet,
Near where the ancient arch did meet
O'er famous little Sussex Street,
For there a tragedy took place
Which here the muse with truth shall trace.
A boy stood near that arch of old
Upon a wintry day--'twas cold,
Tired of sleighing down the hill,
He for a moment there stood still,
That boy sits now with pen in hand,
From memory's photographic land
Painting in colors fair and true
The vanished scenes which once he knew.
As thus he rested taking breath,
He little dreamed of blood or death.
Up Rideau Street a man there came,
Charles McStravick was his name.
A tall, lithe, active fellow, he,
As in a thousand you could see;
A white blanket _capote_ he wore,
And jauntily himself he bore,
He stepped beneath the arch, and then
Rushed at him fiercely two strong men.
Both with surprise and dread were scan'd.
One had a loaded whip in hand,
The other a short bludgeon bore,
And in a moment, all was o'er!
Three blows, a crash, a stream of blood.
All of the victim bad or good
In life, was in an instant crushed
To dust--off the assailants rushed,
And none can tell from then 'till now
The hands that laid McStravick low,
Nor does he who relates the story
Know more of that occurrence gory
My history would be faithless here
Did "Happy Jimmy" not appear,
An innocent good natured soul
As ever loved the flowing bowl--
An institution of the day
That like himself hath passed away,
Was "Happy Jimmy," he who made
A vagrant's life a merry trade.