Chapter 9

Pierre Rocque, thou ancient man of stone! I had almost let thee alone; But 'twere not well to leave behind, A man of such a rocky kind; Thy Christian name is stone--that's hard, Rock is thy surname, saith the Bard Thou art an adamantine card. And Baptist Cantin, too, it seems, Appears 'mongst recollections' dreams, A carpenter of worth and note, Who ne'er asked sixpence for his vote. Helaire Pinard presents his face, And cheerfully I give him place, A quiet, rare man, be it known, Who minds no business but his own. Joseph Paquette, to thee I give A line to make thy memory live, 'Mid earliest recollections, thou Art not the one least thought of now; Something far better than mere fame Is thine, it is an honest name! Thomas E. Woodbury, who made Tin cans and stovepipes, when the trade And town was in an infant state, Back in the days of '28. And Fletcher, an old Yankee, who Taught school and flogged his scholars, too With a good health-inspiring cat, My blessing on his old white hat! Tho' scarce, entitled like the rest By early advent, I think best To name "The Orator of the West," James Spencer Lidstone, child of song, The "man of memory," vast and long, Who had, reader you need not start, All Milton's Paradise by heart; Strange mixture he of prose and rhyme, Ridiculous, and the sublime In him were singularly blended; Where one began or the other ended, It would be difficult to tell. He played his part in each so well, James Spencer Lidstone, fare thee well! And 'mongst the ancient sons of fame Who says that Dinny Cantlin's name Does not deserve a line or two In these old chronicles most true? Dinny was just four feet in length, Although a man of pith and strength, His arm was always ready, too, All rowdyism to subdue. When special constable one day, He captured in some sudden fray A fellow six feet high, or taller, And held him firmly by the collar; And Dinny, as he upward gazed At the colossus, o'er him raised, Exclaimed, "escape now, if you can, You're in the clutches of a man!" Dinny had a commanding eye, His hat was eighteen inches high Come next to view, Denis O'Neill, A ship carpenter, who laid the keel Of many a vessel in his day, And still he clinks and caulks away. James Finch, too, who died here of late, Was one of those of '28, Or '27 it may be, Comes nearer to the certainty; James Finch sledged stoutly with a will, In the old forge on "Major's Hill," In '29, he once lay still For fifteen minutes on the ground Insensible to sight or sound, 'Twas a stone that almost killed him quite, In a most lively faction fight In Bytown's celebrated fair, When stones flew thickly through the air, I can't forget it, I was there; Its history I'll not jot down Until I get to Upper Town. And Charles Rowan, well I know, The reader sought for him ere now, What shall I of friend Charlie say, Who came from Connaught all the way? Who well can speak the celtic tongue In which the Irish mintrels sung. When famous Malachi of old The collar wore of beaten gold, Torn fiercely from the haughty Dane By his right arm in battle slain! Charlie is mild and full of meekness, Horses with him have been a weakness: A clipper spanking between traces He used to drive at trotting races, And then his powers of selection In liquor almost touch perfection. Next comes James Whitty, man of old, Who once was a young sailor bold, A quiet, little Wexford man, Who warmed his jacket at Japan, And "dashed his buttons" gaily, too, In China with the pig-tailed crew; Ere he in times that are no more On Ottawa's bosom tugged an oar. John Ashfield now in sight appears, A gunsmith of the faded years; Just as flint locks began to lapse, He came in with percussion caps. Here, too, is William Graham, the same, Who from Fermanagh County came, And many a hard earned shilling made By groceries and general trade; Father of him once called "Black Bill," That we might designate him still, From him of Madawaska note, Who oft on timber was afloat, And who has claim in song of mine To something o'er a passing line. Companion of my early youth, When time with us was young; and truth Was all we knew in life's fair spring, Thy name doth recollections bring Long slumbering in "oblivions vale," 'Till waked by memory's passing gale; With thee I strayed in days of yore Beside old "Goodwood's" pleasant shore; Each unforgotten scene by thee Is brought to life again for me; A child again with thee I stand, Among that childish happy band, Who thought not, dreamt not, that the day Of early bliss would pass away; No retrospect can be more fair That that I see behind me there, Friend William Graham, I wish thee well, But this to thee I need not tell. Who is he with the cassock on, Who bursts my second sight upon, A merry twinkle in his eye, Not sanctimonious, nor yet sly, His country, one can scarcely miss Such pure Hibernian brogue is his? Tis surely Father Heron's gait, Bytown's first priest in '28. Close in canonical degree, John Cannon's stately form I see, In bigotry no stern red-tapist, Favorite of Protestant and Papist; A jovial blade with soul elastic, No gloomy-faced ecclesiastic, He ruled his congregation well, Nor taught them that the path to hell Was thronged by those who made digression From penance, fasting and confession. And there with academic birch, Stands Anslie of the English Church, Who preached in Hull and Bytown too, Of old, to many a godless crew, Assembled on each Sabbath day To pass an idle hour away, Though doubtless some went there to pray, While here I pass in swift review The reverend and pious few, Who stood as finger posts of yore, Pointing the way to Canaan's shore, John Carroll surely should appear, And take his proper station here, An honest Wesleyan was he, Who never knew hypocrisy. George Poole in days more distant still, In the little church on "Sandy Hill," Which gave its name to "Chapel Street," His congregation oft did meet. And John C. Davidson, also, Was one of those who long ago 'Mid primal darkness, thick and gross, Unfurled the banner of the cross; A Methodist both sound and prime He was esteemed in the old time, 'Till something gave his faith a lurch, And he bolted to the English Church, In which 'tis said that he is quite "A burning and a shining light."