Chapter 7

Though strictly not of Bytown fame, I can't forget John Egan's name, It well deserves what I can give, To make it unforgotten live; For 'mongst the sons of enterprise, Who rose with Bytown's early rise, When "Norway Pine" was number one, John Egan stands almost alone-- The king of the Grand River, then The Wellington of lumber men A man of boundless energy, And vast capacity was he, All difficulties had to fly, And cower before his dauntless eye! Right well may Aylmer mourn and boast The enterprising son she lost, Upon the day when from earth's toil He "shuffled off the mortal coil." And N.H. Baird, of old was here, A scientific engineer; And Finland, the contractor, who With coach and four the streets drove through, The grandest carriage of the kind E'er seen in Bytown--with behind-- In gorgeous and artistic glare, A lion and an eagle--where Is friend Perkins? he can still Remember that old eagle's bill. And Captain Andrew Wilson, O! I've got an old sea lion now, Who saw the flash of Nelson's eye, Amid the smoke of victory, Both at Trafalgar and the Nile. Aye, saw the hero's dying smile Of triumph, when his cruise was o'er, And to the vast eternal shore, Launched forth by death's o'erwhelming gale His gallant spirit spread its sail! O'er flowing bowl with might and main, He fought his battle's o'er again, Talked of chain shot, and "Stinkpot's" stench, And hated cordially the French, Whom he believed were but created To be by sailors killed and hated What e'er he was, what passage o'er, He took to the mysterious shore, Old Charon never cleft the wave. Yet with a soul more true and brave! And Baptiste Homier, when alive, I think had children twenty-five, Presided o'er a tavern neat, On the south side of Rideau street. A place well known both near and far, And there John Johnston kept the bar, Related backward up the stream, To him who had the lucky dream; With the old Chief, who in "a fix" Was found before old '76. Colonial history has told The story in the days of old. The Indian dreamed, the General lost His uniform, but to his cost The wily chieftain quickly found The General's dream, bought solid ground, And Martin, James, and Darby Keally From the green land of the "Shillaly." Richard Fitzsimmons, too, was found, The Paganini of sweet sound In days gone by, with memories big, And well he danced an Irish jig. Most incomplete would be my tale, Did I not draw aside the veil, And bring from distant vistas through, The ancient fiddler into view. While strolling downward by the locks, One of those reminiscent knocks I felt, which brought my eye before Another of the men of yore; I gazed, as the dim shadow neared, And then before my sight appeared The recollection of a name, 'Twas Commissary Ashworth came. And not far off, with business look And pen in hand o'er ponderous book, I see another friend of youth Noted for probity and truth; 'Tis Thomas Donelly, worthy man! Whom now with memory's eye I scan. Still as the mist of memory clears, I meet the men of other years; Another page I now unfold, And Captain Bolton I behold, Or Major Bolton, if you will, Who lived upon the "Major's Hill," Which got his rank and bears it still. It used to be in days gone by, "The Colonel's Hill," a rank more high, And worthy of the ancient trees, Whose foliage rustled in the breeze, Where pigeons, in their annual flight, Were wont by thousands to alight, O! many a fusilade I've seen, Of flint locks in its bowers green; It got the name recorded here, From Colonel By, who first lived there; 'Twas then a grove of thickest shade, What civilization's hand hath made, The Indian, with its withering skill, It has done for the "Colonel's Hill." Who comes, so centaur like in grace, Good spirits pictured in his face? 'Tis Isaac Smith, let truth not vary, A gentleman from Tipperary, Beloved by all, 'twere hard to mate him, He had no enemies to hate him, His friends were neither scarce nor few They numbered every soul he knew. Who e'er remembers Isaac Smith, Mounted top boots and breeches with, Upon his stately old black mare Will recollect a horseman rare. Christopher Carlton, where art thou? Come here, old friend, I want thee now To ramble back with me again To where of old McPherson and Crane, And Francis Clemow, too, I think, Did business at the Basin's brink. And Bindon Burton Alton, who Has vanished from terrestial view; The poet with the flashing eye-- The true born son of minstrelsy! Who sang so sweetly, memory still Trembles with the undying thrill. Which throbbed in melting tones of fire From Bindon Burton Alton's lyre, Alas! alas! that such a soul Should sink a victim to the bowl. Thomas MacKay, who's worthy name Is well known even to modern fame. The worth which honest men revere Deserves a fitting record here. With mighty gangs he excavated The ancient quarry situated On west side of "the Major's Hill." Which modern hands find hard to till; The stones from thence by powder rent To build the seven Canal Locks went. The Sappers' Bridge, too, was erected By blocks of limestone thence ejected. Like many another rising man. Mackay for ancient Russell "ran" To use a term, which means to-day That he runs best who best can pay! The declaration found him seated And his antagonist defeated. New honors came his name to greet, A Legislative Councillor's seat Was given next to Russell's pride, Clad with which dignity he died. And no more upright man has e'er Deserving of the post sat there. And William Stewart, too, who's name Elsewhere has graced my roll of fame, Was as the reader will remember, For Bytown long ago a member, Good representative he made, And his constituents ne'er betrayed, We were by taxes lightly rated When Bytown was incorporated, By the Bill by him presented When he this village represented In '47, the year, no other, When to that stingy old step mother, The County of Carleton we were tied And had our temper sorely tried. This was before Lord Sydenham's reign Which gave that legislative strain To our Colonial Constitution, And made a legal institution, The Bill Municipal in Legislation, The often tinkered act which rules the nation. And James Stewart, a medico Of the old school of long ago, A votary of potent pill, And lancet too for many an ill. And not a whit more given to kill His patients, say these truthful rhymes. Than M.D's of more modern times, And now I think it only fair To mention here Doctor O'Hare, Who of old Bytown formed a part, And practised the assuaging art Before the time of Scanlon's tarry, Before the days of Edward Barry Who in his person did combine The medical and legal line, Exhibiting as his degree Upon his card J.P.M.D." He gave to Bytown's sporting men Such Fox-hunt as we ne'er again Shall see; ah! 'twas a joyful day, When Barry with tin horn away, In glory on "Bob Logie's" back, Followed the variegated pack Yelping in chorus o'er the plain, We'll never see such sport again! Who would at length the story hear, Can ask the Sheriff, he was there, And bravely in his headlong way Did "Shamrock" carry him that day, Close in the terror stricken wake Of Reynard, over bush and brake, James Fraser, too, can tell the tale, For he went over hill and dale, And swamp and fence and ditch and bush, Foremost in the determined rush. To get up first and win the brush, While loud above the yelling din, Sounded the Doctor's horn of tin, That hunt the public health to save Was the best prescription e'er he gave.