Chapter 8

Can I, an ancient friend, pass by, Who even to-day still greets my eye, And brings up among modern men The dearly cherish'd past again? 'Tis far, far back, I scarce can fix The date, perhaps, 'twas '26, When he, in Huntly, on a farm, Once tried his unaccustomed arm At work for which 'twas never made, In that most independent trade. He left Bucolics, trees, and all, And moved away to Montreal, To teach, as better him did suit, "The young idea how to shoot." And many a youth has blest the day Of Alexander Workman's sway. I'll say no more, lest I should be Accused, perhaps, of flattery. 'Twould scarcely here be out of place If Edward Griffin's smiling face I should present in colors true-- In good Samaritanic view; The patron of Joe Lee, whose name Is known to histrionic fame; Who play'd at Shylock on the stage, When tragedy was more the rage Than in this sad degenerate age. And where art thou, my friend, George Story, A man of yore, though not yet hoary? The even tenor of thy way Hast thou maintain'd for many a day; They tell us within human range That mortal things are given to change, It may be so, yet thou art still But little changed, though down the hill Quietly gliding, still thou hast An air about thee of the past; Who knew thee thirty years ago At the first glance would know thee now. And Thomas Story--modest man-- As well as any other can, Or, he may think, much better too, Suit habit's taste in me or you, In coat artistically made According to that ancient trade, Which had its rise in solitude, Where Adam lived before the flood-- Is still Tom Story of the past, Long may his life's fair measure last And Sandy Mowat, here's a line To thee, in memory of lang syne; Fond wert thou of the target ground-- Fond of a rifle and a hound; Dost thou remember Bearbrook's brink And the old shanty without "chink," Or door to stop the piercing gale That whirled along the snow-clad vale, Where Peter McArthur, you and I, Once slept beneath a wintry sky; While through the roof in splendor bright We saw the guardians of the night-- The snow-storm of the coming day-- The savage wounded buck at bay-- And how we lost and found our way? Dost thou forget the strain of glee That from deep slumber's arms roused thee? Dost thou remember who did ride The bounding wounded buck astride, And whose the crimsoned hunting knife That ended there the quarry's life. Then "Eastman's Springs" were little known To few beyond we three alone. And Malcolm Ferguson, oh why, Should memory's record pass thee by? An artist of the gentle trade, By whom Bytonians were arrayed Most fashionably in old times. When dross among the social crimes Held not the rank which modern art Hath given it in fashion's mart. An agile fireman, danger-proof, As ever struggled up a roof, Or to the midnight summons sprang When the alarm signal rang; As cat or squirrel of active limb-- A "ridge-pole" was a street to him. The old extinguishers of flame Will well remember Malcolm's name. As the long past I wander through, Michael O'Reilly comes to view; A man of stature, somewhat brief, Who largely dealt of old in beef, In that cheap time when scanty coin Was ample for the fattest loin, Rounds, chops, and beefsteaks were not gold In those delightful days of old. 'Tis true the tallow-candle's light Was all the ray that cheered the night, Before our first assizes term Was dignified by actual sperm-- The real thing--no "Belmont's" then Were found among the sons of men. Another name remembrance brings, The muse of old John Darcey sings, In numbers almost a magician-- A wonderful arithmetician, Whose mode with all others "collided," Who added, multiplied, divided, And even substracted by such rules As ne'er were known or taught at schools. No learned professor of the birch E'er left John Darcey in the lurch; No pedagogue was ever able To con his arithmetic table. And Edward Darcey--no relation-- Except in name, to old Equation, A son of Crispin, a sole nailer, Who owned a curly dog called "Sailor"-- A noble, liver-hue'd retriever, Who'd make one almost a believer In canine intellectual merit Which dogs as well as men inherit. Louis Pinard, in ancient times, Was always ready with the "dimes"-- Excuse the slang--which a disgrace is-- At gallopping or trotting races, And A.P. Lesperance beside him, A good horse kept, and well could ride him, When horsemanship was more in fashion Than sitting still and laying lash on, In four-wheeled vehicle at ease, Which modern Jehuism doth please. And Galipean, who kept good whiskey, And old Jamaica to make frisky The visitors to his retreat, On the east side of Sussex Street, Close to the very spot, I think, Where now James Thompson deals in mink, Otter and other kinds of fur, Prime and unprime, without demur. 'Twas at this inn one afternoon In '33, the month was June, That Martin Hennessy once tried On horseback up the stairs to ride. And would have done so, but for this, A pistol shot that did not miss, Which gave him, oh, most foul disgrace! A charge of buckshot in the face, Which spoiled his beauty without doubt. And knocked his "dexter peeper" out. And E.S. Lyman, old cathartic! With lengthy form and features arctic-- Dispenser of blisters, pills and potions, Boluses and specific lotions, And panaceas in variety To cram the ailing to satiety-- Succeeded Auld, Apothecary, A scientific quoiter, very, Who righted phisiologic faults With Calomel and Epsom Salts, And made prescriptions up with skill Of _aqua pura_, which doth still Maintain its place as chief ingredient, In every mixture, quite expedient, He kept his drug shop at the spot Where hospitality has got Her Shiboleth from land of Tara, Under the rule of Pat. O'Meara! And Richard Kneeshaw, man of science, Who placed in _reason_ such reliance, As made him almost think salvation Could not be found in revelation: Chemist and druggist by profession, He held within his mind's possession Vast stores of knowledge, ever breeding Ideas new from constant reading. And Henry Bishoprick, a wise man, Who acted druggist and exciseman, And seized at loaded pistol's muzzle Contrabandistas, who could puzzle An ordinary Gager's cunning When tea and whiskey they were running. And William Henry Baldwin, too, Who first appeared in public view At the old Albion, where in state, Bob Graham rules the roast of late; Son of a U.E. Loyalist, Who found his way out of the mist Republican which played such tricks With loyalty in '76, He came, as many another came To Canada, in Britain's name, To live his life and die beside The flag that's still his country's pride! Thomas Gillespie Burns, "T.G.," I have not quite forgotten thee; Thou wert an early importation From Erin's Isle, and thy migration Did little damp in heart or hand Thy love for the old parent land, Who's green is greener in its pride Of bloom than all the world beside! Thy boast has always been true blue-- To British institutions true! And William Rogerson, 'tis well That I of him should something tell-- A tall, majestic, looking son Of Caledonia--he was one, In early times, who carried on The lumber traffic with a will, When such names as Price and McGill Were standards in the staple trade Which Bytown Ottawa hath made. And William Dunning, who kept store The first old County Gaol before, Where now the Albion proudly stands And flourishes in other hands, And Clements Bradley, who lived near The border long ago, was here; An agriculturist of yore, Who settled near the Rideau's shore, And opened 'mid primeval trees A pathway for the passing breeze. Full half a century has flown Since the first tree he tumbled down, And yet his strength seems still unspent, His step is firm, his back unbent.