And now, kind reader, I behold
Before me, as in days of old,
Bold Paddy Whelan, Wexford Paddy
Surely of noisy men the daddy;
A man of most Herculean form,
Who roamed through sunshine and through storm,
And sounded loud in other days
His notes in Hamnett Pinhey's praise--
And well he might sing with loud swell,
"The Lamb of March" deserved it well!
A man of learning, wit, and sense,
No shallow thing of vain pretence,
The true stamp of the current guinea
Bore March's Father, Hamnett Pinhey.
To "Muddy Little York" went he,
The Independent and the Free
To represent with power effective
Amid the wisdom most collective,
In the old days of Compact Rule
Ere Grittism yet had gone to school;
Dalhousie District's Archives too,
Can show what he was wont to do.
Paddy, though not of _genus feræ,_
Was yet a queer _lusus naturæ_;
His vital organs played beneath
A shield of solid bone 'till death,
Without a yielding space between,
Where ribs in other men are seen,
Though not a feathered bird, his toes
Were web'd as well the writer knows,
And joined in one in style most rare
His molars and incisors were;
His voice, when at its loudest swell,
Was like a railway whistle's yell;
In stature he was six feet tall,
So there is Paddy for you all!
But strike I now a strain sublime,
A touch heroic into rhyme.
As memory doth with truth uncoil
The history of old Bob Boyle,
A British soldier, bold and free,
Of the old Ninety-Ninth was he,
Who bravely fought and 'scaped from harm,
At Lundy's Lane and Crysler's Farm,
And gallantly his bayonet bore,
At Fort Niagara, and the shore
Of Sackett's Harbor trod of yore,
When "Uncle Sam," our friend and brother,
Or cousin, kicked up such a "bother"
In 1812, and tried
In vain to lower Britain's pride,
By cutting from her parent side,
By a Cæsarean operation,
The proudest offspring of the nation!
The Union Jack, thank heaven! still
Floats proudly over vale and hill,
Of this Dominion grand of ours;
And shattered be the vital powers,
By fatal stroke, like that which slew,
Sennacherib's Assyrian crew,
Of him who's traitor hand shall dare
To furl one fold that flutters there!
And palsied be the traitor tongue,
And from its root uptorn and wrung,
That dares to utter but one word
To weaken the soul-anchored cord,
Which binds Canadians heart and hand
In love to the old Mother Land!
Bob Boyle, "I thank thee" that thy name
Hath stirred the patriotic flame,
In days like these, when treason's veil
Drops when passions fierce assail,
And leaves exposed to public view
The traitor double-dyed in hue!
Hear, spawn of disaffection's thrall!
Rouge, Annexationist and all
This--ere the Union Jack shall fall,
The path of treason red with blood
Shall sink beneath a crimson flood,
While o'er it from the highest crag,
Will wave the glorious meteor flag!
I've wandered somewhat from my track,
But quietly I now come back;
Into my train of thought there blew
A passing spark, away it flew,
And I was gone before I knew--
Like nitro-glycerine it sprung,
And from the pathway I was flung.
Yet no uncertain sound give I,
I risk it as a prophecy.
By George Street north, I pass and see
There Pierre Desloges, a man was he,
But little known beyond the spot
Where first he built his little cot.
And Alexander Ethier too,
A carpenter, both good and true
Beside him dwelt, where busy feet,
Pass onward to Dalhousie Street.
And now I think it passing strange
That in wild fancy's flitting range
I have not seen and mark'd before
John Litle standing at his door--
In Sussex Street where erst, kept he
An Inn of quite a good degree
Of excellence in the old time
Which has evoked this lengthy rhyme,
John was a man of sturdy frame
As any that hath borne his name.
Even Brave Bob Elliot would delight
His prowess to behold in fight;
And Robert Elliott was not slow
To give or to resent a blow
In other days, when not as now.
The olive branch of peace is seen
Between the orange and the green.
And Richard Stethem in the haze
Of Bytown's distant early days
Before my vision doth appear,
To claim his right of entry here.
And Robert Stethem, too, his brother,
Of village denizens another;
John Miller too, of leather fame,
Who from the County Wexford came,
And first made here such boots and shoes
As fashion could not now refuse
In this fastidious age to take
And wear them for their matchless make.
And how have I not had before
James Anderson, a man of yore,
Who pitched his tent in days gone by
'Mong Bytown's ancient company,
An honest hearted jovial Scot
As e'er in exile cast his lot
'Mongst those who pioneered the track
Down which my memory's muse looks back.
And now as I stretch forth my hand
In search of one from Paddy's land,
A man of wit and humour rare,
I touch him still and find him there.
From Erin, scarcely from Armagh,
To Carleton came Denis McGrath,
Loud has his North Hibernian tongue
Upon the Byward market rung
For six and thirty years; in truth,
I've known him since the days of youth,
John Litle can my tale review
Of Denis, he will find it true.
And John Macdonald, of the Isles,
With face clad in perennial smiles,
Knight of the knock-down hammer, he
Claims passing notice now from me--
A well read man, for truth to tell,
He studied Burns and Byron well;
And which two of the wizard few
Have touched with tuneful hand so true.
The throbbing pulses of the soul,
Which vibrate 'neath their wild control.
Friend John Macdonald, here's my hand,
Thou relic of the vanished land!
Michael McBean I can't pass by,
He kept of old a grocery--
Just opposite McDougal's gate,
Where the big auger hangs in state.
Richard McCann, too, did abide
In peace the Sappers' Bridge beside,
In house we ne'er shall see again,
Once tenanted by Andrew Main--
A cannie, sober, honest Scot,
Was Andrew Main--an humble lot,
With patient industry he bore,
Till fortune smiled, and then a store
He opened, in extensive way,
Where William Fingland keeps to-day.
Peter A. Egleson to boot,
The young idea how to shoot,
On George Street north, in days gone by
Taught in his own academy;
At length the birch he threw aside,
And floated proudly on the tide
Of commerce--and his name appears
Where it was found in other years.
Next Richard Thomas comes to view,
And Nat and Jonas Barry too,
All plasterers of the old time
Who made their bread by sand and lime.
Joachim Valiquette, a baker,
And Joseph Valiquette, shoemaker,
A votary of the rod and line
When summer evenings are fine,
He like a nightingale can sing
A holy strain--as well as bring
From well known spot--a goodly string
Of fish upon a Thursday night
That Friday may be kept all right.
Gone is our friend Peter Riel
Whom old Bytonians once knew well;
An innocent good man was he,
Given sometimes to a little spree;
Once member of the Council here,
He gave forth many a loyal cheer,
And sat triumphal carriage on,
In state with Queen Victoria's Son,
When Albert Edward came this way
A royal visit here to pay.
My song complete would not appear
Unless "the Major's" name were here;
His regimental number now
I can't recall--but this I know,
He bravely marched with battle brand
Among the guardians of the land,
Ready alike to fall or stand
As duty's accents gave command;
Far might yon seek, and find not then
A soul more genial amongst men,
A lot unmarked by mortal ills
Is all I wish to Major Wills.