Chapter 1

In '28, on Patrick's Day, At one p.m., there came this way From Richmond, in the dawn of spring, He who doth now the glories sing Of ancient Bytown, as 'twas then, A place of busy working men, Who handled barrows and pickaxes, Tamping irons and broadaxes, And paid no Corporation taxes; Who, without license onward carried All kinds of trade, but getting married; Stout, sinewy, and hardy chaps, Who'd take and pay back adverse raps, Nor ever think of such a thing As squaring off outside the ring, Those little disagreements, which Make wearers of the long robe rich. Such were the men, and such alone, Who quarried the vast piles of stone, Those mighty, ponderous, cut-stone blocks, With which Mackay built up the Locks. The road wound round the Barrack Hill, By the old Graveyard, calm and still; It would have sounded snobbish, very, To call it then a Cemetery-- Crossed the Canal below the Bridge, And then struck up the rising ridge On Rideau Street, where Stewart's Store Stood in the good old days of yore; There William Stewart flourished then, A _man_ among old Bytown's men; And there, Ben Gordon ruled the roast, Evoking many a hearty toast, And purchase from the throngs who came To buy cheap goods in friendship's name. Friend Ben, dates back a warm and true heart To days of Mackintosh and Stewart. Beside where Aumond and Barreille Their fate together erst did try, In the old "French Store," on whose card _Imprimis_ was J. D. Bernard. "_Grande Joe_," still sturdy, stout and strong. Long be he so! Will o'er my song, Bend kindly, and perhaps may sigh, While rapidly o'er days gone by, He wanders back in memory. Aye, sigh, for when he look's around, How few, alas! can now be found, Who heard the shrill meridian sound Of Cameron's bugle from the hill, How few, alas! are living still-- How few who saw in pride pass on The Sappers with their scarlet on, Their hackle plumes and scales of brass, Their stately tread as on they pass. I seem to see them through the shade Of years, in warlike pomp arrayed, Marching in splendid order past, Their bugles ringing on the blast, Their bayonets glittering in the sun, The vision fades, the dream is done. Below the Bridge, at least below, Where stands the Sappers' structure now, You had to pass in going down From Upper to the Lower Town; For, reader, then, no bridge was there, Where afterwards with wondrous care, And skilful hands; the Sappers made That arch which casts into the shade All other arches in the land, By which Canals and streams are span'd; The passing wayfarer sees nought But a stone bridge by labor wrought, The Poet's retrospective eye Searching the depths of memory, A monument to Colonel By, Beholds, enduring as each pile Which stands beside the Ancient Nile, As o'er the past my vision runs, Gazing on Bytown's elder sons, The portly Colonel I behold Plainly as in the days of old, Conjured before me at this hour By memory's undying power; Seated upon, his great black steed Of stately form and noble breed. A man who knew not how to flinch-- A British soldier every inch. Courteous alike to low and high A gentleman was Colonel By! And did I write of lines three score About him, I could say no more. Howard and Thompson then kept store Down by "the Creek," almost next door, George Patterson must claim a line Among the men of auld lang syne; A man of very ancient fame, Who in old '27 came. One of the first firm doth remain, He is our worthy Chamberlain, Who ne'er in life's farce cut a dash On other people's errant cash; Who guards, as it is right well known, Better than e'er he did his own, The people's money, firm and sure, To the last cent, safe and secure. And opposite across the street, A friend or foe could always meet A man deserving hero's title, Uncompromising Watson Litle! A stern upholder of the law Who ne'er in justice found a flaw, With well charged blunderbuss in hand He asked not order or command, But sallied forth _semper paratus_ To aid the _Posse Comitatus_! "Peace to his ashes!" many a score Of heads he smashed in days of yore! Where is the marble slab to show Where Watson Litle's dust lies low? Close by "the Creek," on the south side Of Rideau Street, did then reside John Cuzner, a British tar, For pluck renown'd both near and far! Nor would I willingly forget While tracing recollections met Of other days, and from the past Collecting memories fading fast, Of lines our earliest purveyor, John MacNaughton, the Surveyor, The only one who then was quite At home with the theodolite, And boxed the trembling compass well, Before the days of Robert Bell. A little further up the street, James Martin's name the eye did greet A round faced Caledonian, who Good eating and good drinking knew; And "Four-pence-half-penny" McKenzie Daily vended wolsey linsey, Next door to one of comic cheer Acknowledged the best auctioneer, That ever knock'd a bargain down, Or bidder if he chanced to frown; He set himself up in the end As Carleton's most worthy friend And by _vox populi_ was sent To Parliament to represent The men of Carleton, one and all, In ancient Legislative Hall. And by "The Tiger" sleek and fat, Our old friend "Jimmy Johnston" sat, The corner stock'd with silks and ribbon, Was kept and owned by Miss Fitzgibbon. A good stand it has ever been For commerce in this busy scene; Stand oft of idler and of scorner, I mean the modern "Howell's Corner," Called after "Roderick of the sword," Once well known Chairman of School Board. And down below near Nicholas Street, A quiet man each morn you'd meet At ten a.m., his pathway wending, With steps to Ordnance office bending, A mild man and an unassuming, Health and good nature ever blooming Seem'd stamped upon his smiling face, Where time had scarcely left its trace; _Semper idem_ let me beg Thy pardon, honest William Clegg! Nor must, although his bones are rotten, The ancient Mosgrove be forgotten, A man of kindly nature, he Has left a spot in memory While gazing on each vanish'd scene That still remains both fresh and green For when in heat of hurling bent The ball oft through his window went, He pitch'd it to us out again, And ask'd no payment for the pane. On Sussex Street, James Inglis flourish'd, A cannie Scot, and well he nourish'd A very thriving dry goods trade, And "piles" of good hard silver made, Almost amongst the forest trees, By furs from Aborigines. No "Hotel" then was in the town, "The British" in its old renown, Of our Hotels the ancient mother Had not one stone laid on another; Donald McArthur in a cavern Of wood sustained his ancient tavern, And there the best of cheer was found Within old Bytown's classic ground; And now I'll close my roll of fame With a most well-remember'd name, A man of dignity supreme Rises to view in memory's dream, Ultra in Toryism's tariff, Was Simon Fraser, Carleton's Sheriff, Personified by the third vowel, Forerunner of W.F. Powell, A high and most important man In the renown'd old Fraser Clan, Who well had worn the Highland tartan, For he was bold as any Spartan, And did his duty mildly, gravely, And wore the sword and cocked hat bravely.