CHAPTER III.

"And "Little Johnny Robertson," But lately from amongst us gone, Took both his "sneeshin" and his glass, And let the tide of fortune pass. And Ewen Cameron, who died By cholera in manhood's pride; A Caledonian lithe and strong, As fancy paints the dauntless throng, Who dashed with claymore down the slope, On red Culloden's grave of hope. And Peter Aylen, who could tell The path he trod of yore as well As I, who from an early day Knew Peter Aylen's every way? 'Tis not my purpose to indite A history of his life; or write A record of his strange career, To interest the reader here. Howe'er his stirring life you scan, You'll find that Aylen was a man! Afraid of nought that ever wore The human shape on Ottawa's shore! Chief of the "shiners," it was said, Caesar or nothing—never led— But always foremost in the fray, Was ever Peter Aylen's way. A heavy lumberer Peter was, When lumbering was like pitch and toss, To-day success, to-morrow loss. But let him rest, he sleeps beside The Ottawa's majestic tide! Perhaps I'd better mention here Who and what the "shiners" were, Who gave of yore such sturdy thumps, And brought forth phrenologic bumps Unknown to scan of craniology, With bludgeons or aid of geology. A band of Irish raftsmen, who Were to each other always true, Combined together, war they made, To banish from the lumber trade All French-Canadian competition By dooming it to abolition; They made the wild attempt, at least, To extirpate poor Jean Baptiste. Among their victims they enrol'd him, And made the place too hot to hold him, Yet were the tales that rumor told, Worse than the shiners' acts of old, Though memory's charged with many a fray That happened in the early day, When shiners with an iron hand Reigned here the terror of the land! Few were the victims of the strife— If any—and the loss of life, Was fanciful much more than real In that blood-letting old ordeal. Among the medico's of old, Doctor Stratford I behold, Who foolishly I thought deemed best To emigrate towards the West, And leave behind a work which few Could with a single lancet do When venesection—old idea, Combined with the Phamacopeiae Was patent as a panacea For almost every mortal ill, Like calomel jalap, or blue pill. He disappeared from healing fame, And young Edward Vancortlandt came; For he was young and active, too, When first he met the minstrel's view, And striding rapidly did go Along full forty years ago! VanCortlandt's had a long career Since first he bled and blistered here; His own hand hath his fortune made— His own hand the foundation laid— And if success, with hoards of wealth He has not now—the public health Has never suffered at his hand; Nor has the mystic spirit land Been peopled by the shades of those Who in their last dissolving throes, Gave evidence that power to kill Was mingled with Vancortlandt's skill— When to that distant coast he'll steer, No crowd of ghosts will hover near, And cry out. "Van, you sent us here!" Edward McGillivray, how is this, That I by accident should miss So long an ancient name like thine, 'Twould be unpardonable, if mine The fault to leave thy well-known name Unwritten in my roll of fame? Bytown was young, and so wert thou, Years long before the "Shannon's" prow Cleft Ottawa's bosom on her way To Grenville in our early day. No steam whistle's discordant yell Shrieked on the evening zephyr's swell; But from her deck the cannon's din Told Bytown that the boat was in, And at the sound the signal man His banner up the flagstaff ran. It was a good old time when thou Bought beavers at a price which now, When beaver skins are somewhat rare, Would cause even Chauncey Bangs to stare. Yes, 'twas a fine old time for trade, Money was plenty—easy made, And thou wert, aye, a canine blade. Patrick Delaney home has gone From earthly toil, and he was one Of those who in the distant past, His lot in Upper Town had cast. James Elder, a majestic Scot! On whom of old it was my lot To look with veneration's eye. Kept Bytown's staid academy; And here I dwell with fond delight, And view again with memory's sight The stately teacher in his chair, King of the throng assembled there. Now Allan Cameron comes to view, And William Stubbs, there he is too. Wellington Wright, too, I behold, And wild Jack Adamson, the bold. The Anderson's, both James and John, And Stephen Lett, my mother's son, Who stood upon Parnassus' crown By might of Genius, and looked down To where with errant steps I strayed Around its base beneath the shade. And many more were pupils there, Where are they? "echo answers, where?" In fancy I away have stepped From where his school James Elder kept, In that old house remembered well, After, as Joseph Kirk's Hotel, Ere it was haunted by a sound Which shed such melody around, Sweet almost as the songs of Zion, From violin of Robinson Lyon, Who drew such music from its strings, Scotch reels, strathspeys and highland flings, And Irish jigs in variation, As made one feel that "all creation" Could scarcely match his wizard spell, 'Twas he that played the fiddle well! And Edward Malloch, gone to rest, Was not the worst, nor yet the best, Perhaps, 'mongst those of other days To whom I dedicate these lays. I knew him well in '25, When Richmond Village was alive, While Bytown's head was scarcely seen, Emerging from the forest green. A captain of Artillery In '37's hot time was he, When Louis Joseph Papineau Sought British power to overthrow; And William L. McKenzie tried O'er loyalty and truth to ride; Each found the path, for what he wanted, Too hot to walk in—and "levanted;" Von Shoultz, a soldier abler, riper, Remained behind and "paid the piper!" Even I, poetic man of peace, Have often marched and stood at ease, Beside the Richmond guns, brought here To thunder o'er the Grande Chaudiere, At the great Union celebration, The new bridge's inauguraton; One thing is certain, those brass guns Were ne'er seen more by Richmond's sons. They fell prey to official nabbing, And Governmental red tape grabbing, Like plunder from the vanquished harried, To Montreal off they were carried! Malloch was member many a year For Carleton when votes were not dear— When damaged eyes, and smashed proboscis Would follow, as the smallest losses. The offer of a vile bank note As price of an elector's vote. Gold, said the sage, perhaps 'twas law, On Dian's lap the snow can thaw; And gold has purchased many a seat Where the "collective wisdom" meet, And many go to represent The weight of cash corrupt which sent Them wandering wickedly astray From honor's seldom trodden way. Where now, is Turner, who of yore, Kept school near the old Ottawa's shore? And Heath who came across the line In able teaching here to shine? And old John Stilman, who shoes made, And flourished in St. Crispin's trade? William McCullough, where is he? Gone to the unknown country— A steady, harmless, quiet man, Who here in '32 began A race unmixed with hate or strife, Which ended only with his life. And Reuben Traveller, who's tongue Oft in the old assizes rung— Though given to mirth, a wondrous crier, Who lived near John Sweetman, the dyer 'Twas all the same, for either side Or both old Reuben Traveller cried— Cried for the man who won law's race— Cried for the man who lost his case— Cried for the criminal acquitted— Cried for the guilty when outwitted— He cried for loss or gain of pelf— For every one except himself; Reuben was a celebrity, We seldom meet with such as he. John Rochester, a man of old, Who's life a tale of goodness told, He steered through time from envy free, You'd scarcely find an enemy, Who o'er his honored dust would dare Defame the ashes resting there; For such as he laws ne'er were made, Peace to his gentle vanished shade! Well, will it be for James and John If they walk the same path upon Which their departed sire trod With love alike to man and God! James Joynt is 'mong the living yet A printer of the old Gazette. Who plied the typographic trade Ably in Bytown's first decade. And taught the art of Caxton well, And thoroughly to John George Bell, Who in our village made a racket, In the old columns of the Packet, Where every one got "tit for tat" From dear departed "Old White Hat!" Who thought Reformers could not err, And laid the lash on Dawson Kerr, Whom he in bitter hues did paint A sinner, and called him "the saint." A journal of more modern date Than the Gazette, who's early fate, Was Phoenix-like to rise resplendent From ashes of the Independent, Which had at periods now and then, Emitted Sparks from Johnston's pen, Which meteor-like shot forth in pride, Blazed, flickered, then collapsed and died. And Robert Hardy's name I find, In the old days long left behind. James Matthews, too, in death's repose, In early times was one of those Who helped to build the ancient town, Which modern taste is pulling down, Assisted now and then by fires, Past recollections primal pyres. John Bennett, cord-wainer of yore, And volunteer in Rifle corps, With muzzle-loaders past and gone, Gallant and brave old Number One! Our civic army's primal rib, Once called by Alexander Gibb, "The Sleepy's," in the good old time When he dealt in both prose and rhyme, And made opponents fume and fret With caustic in the old Gazette— Rhyme, too, in which a critic's claw Could scarcely fasten on a flaw, His verse was standard like his law.



CHAPTER IV.

John Cobb, I'll take a glance at thee, Firm standard of Free Masonry! Mine eye delights to rest upon Thy iron frame, old "Uncle John." If honesty and simple truth E'er "flourished in Immortal youth," Where time can ne'er their glories rob, They rest with thee, my friend, John Cobb! And Dudley Booth, what shall I say Of this strange mortal passed away? His was a genius burning bright With brilliant and uncertain light— Proud in inventive dignity, And dark in inmate mystery, It flickered only, when sublime, It might have left a light for time, And wondering mortals to admire, Tis gone! I saw its flame expire. And John R. Stanley was among Old Bytown's well remembered throng, Whom memory's tuneful measure bears Back from the shades of other years. R.W. Cruice in ancient days Was fond of mirth and sporting ways; I had almost forgot to tell How he on horseback cut a swell, And made a fleet and daring rush At Barry's hunt and won "the brush," When sportsmen gathered full of glee Around the famed J.P., M.D. And here diverging from my road Into a little episode, I'll tear at once with gesture brief From memory's book a comic leaf, A tale from cobweb's volume hoary Of this Sangrado in his glory, Many will recollect the story. Edward Barry, grave J.P., Sometimes was given to a spree, Which interfered with the precision Of magisterial decision. So Edward Barry jumped the hedge And took the frigid temperance pledge; But soon the Justice of the Peace Found himself often ill at ease; Pains through his gastric regions ran, Too hard even for a temperance man. Then Barry M.D., in a trice, Gave Barry J.P. an advice, After a careful diagnosis, Which placed him on a bed of roses, And eased his pains beyond description— A dose of brandy the prescription— Oft as required to be repeated— With which the learned J.P. was treated; And history affirms that he Oft took the prescribed remedy. John Cameron, oft called "Black John," Comes o'er my dream of old, as one Who should not now forgotten be In this memorial strain by me, In days of yore, his true-nosed hounds To the Chaudiere with certain bounds, Oft chased the anther'd buck before Their deep-mouthed yells to Ottawa's shore. He was a sportsman keen and true, Who dearly loved the "view halloo!" And Graves, who near the old Scotch Kirk Dwelt 'neath the shadow of the "birk;" And Isaac Cluff appears in view, A loyalist, both staunch and true; James "Kennedy, the carter," too, Who the first truck through Bytown drew With the assistance of a horse, I mean, to be exact, of course. And "old Ben. Rathwell," now I've hit on, A true and honest hearted Briton, As ever crossed Atlantic's wave To found a home and find a grave. And William Colter now doth rise Before my retrospective eyes, A saddler far from democratic— Professor most aristocratic, In art which claims the highest feather Among the fashioners of leather; An active springing step had he As now his form appears to me; Early he went to that far bourne "From whence no travellers return." Thomas M. Blasdell, step this way, And tell me how you feel to-day? You thought I'd pass and let you go, Old twisted groove! but 'tis not so, Like charcoal, brimstone and salpetre. I'll touch you off now in short metre. 'Tis long since first your eye, my man, Along the rifle barrel ran; The "crotch" or "globe" was all the same, If you could only see the game. Or the "bulls-eye," the missile flew Into its centre straight and true, In the old days when practiced eye Was light, shade and trajectory. Does your keen eye obey your will, Is your hand quite as steady still As when you knocked the turkey's o'er, At twenty rods in days of yore? My blessing day and night upon The memory of the time that's gone. And Sergeant Major Ritchie, there He stands before my vision, where In youth I used to see him stand On Barrack Hill with cane in hand. For many a year ere death's disaster He held the post of Barrack Master, And amongst people who reflected Most highly always was respected. I had almost forgotten one Who's name should not be left alone In dark oblivion's envious shade While I the silent past invade— To light up the forgotten gloom; To rescue from time's early tomb And touch with friendly hand, and give To fading memories power to live. 'Mongst men of enterprising fame, I can't pass George Buchanan's name; He built our first old timber slide, Down which the red pine cribs did glide; And afterwards with strength and skill, And an indomitable will, At the great Rapids of the Chats, Suspended nature's changeless laws, And by an artificial path Triumphed o'er the cataract's wrath! While standing quietly on shore, Watching the freight the current bore, A sudden crash from careless oar Ended his enterprising life, And made a widow of his wife. The public mourned, its great heart bled, With genuine sorrow for the dead. 'Tis but as yesterday to me, The history of that tragedy. Ere to the fair green now I go, I'll stir up the old "Buffalo." John Heney, who his mark has made In speculation's shifting trade, And built up with both brick and stone, Memorials, which, when he is gone, In Ottawa will securely stand, Proofs of his enterprising hand. Some years ago in learned debate, In Council Hall he sat in state. And in his record there you'll find, Nothing unfriendly or unkind. And while as gently I jog on, I cannot, pass by "honest John!" "Shaun Rhua," designating name, Who from the County Cavan came, And in the Upper Town first started. Young, enterprising, and light hearted. At Civic Board for many a year, For By Ward doth his name appear; And I can say, who ought to know, As far as my researches go, No public act has stain left on The well-earned name of "honest John!" Turk, Jew, and heathen all the same, Speak kindly of John Heney's name. Mark Bishoprick has gone at last, An aged pilgrim from the past, Burdened with many years he stood Almost alone in solitude, A record of an age that's gone, Who's lengthened shadow rested on The present, ere the distant light Sunk into everlasting night.



CORKSTOWN.

"Mother McGinty won't forget To keep the tally mark." (OLD SONG.)

In days of yore, within a call Of where stands now the City Hall, A village built of mud and wood, In all its glory, Corkstown stood, Two rows of cabins in the swamp— Begirt by ponds and vapors damp And aromatic cedar trees Who's branches caught the passing breeze— Stretched upward on the western side Of the "Deep Cut," where then were plied The spade and pickaxe side by side; For, by the shade of Colonel By, Who shaped this city's destiny! There delved full many a hard case in, That channel to the Canal Basin. There, then dwelt many a sturdy blade, Adepts at handling the spade, And bruisers at the wheeling trade, As witness the vast mounds of clay Remaining on the banks to-day. Lovers of poteen strong and clear, In preference to rum or beer, Sons of the sod who'd knock you down For half a word 'gainst Cork's own town, And kick you then for falling too, To prove that the old mountain dew Had frolic in it raw and strong, As well as music, love and song. And there in whitewashed shanty grand, With kegs and bottles on each hand, Her face decked with a winning smile, Her head with cap of ancient style, Crowned arbiter of frolic's fate, Mother McGinty sat in state, And measured out the mountain dew To those whom strong attraction drew Within the circle of her power, To while away a leisure hour. She was the hostess and the host, She kept the reckoning, ruled the roast, And swung an arm of potent might That few would dare to brave in fight; Yet was she a good-natured soul, As ever filled the flowing bowl; In sooth she dealt in goodly cheer, Half-pints of whiskey, quarts of beer, Strong doses of sweet peppermint, Fine old Jamaica without stint, And shrub—a cordial then well known— Her thirsty customers poured down, Nor dreamed of headaches, or of ills, For nought killed then, but doctors' pills! The song, the dance, and glass went round, The precincts of that classic ground; And when bent on a tearing spree, Filled full of grog and jollity, The bacchanalian rant they made Would please even old Anacreon's shade, While o'er them the athletic charms Of the stern hostess's bare arms, Struck terror and kept order in The revel's hottest, wildest din! For cash or credit bartered she, The prime ingredients of a spree; And he stood always above par Who never stone threw at the bar; And when a man had spent his all, She chalked the balance on the wall. Figures or letters she knew not, But what a customer had got By hieroglyphics well she knew, For there exposed to public view Each debtor's tally great and small Appeared upon the bar-room wall. A short stroke for a half-pint stood, A longer for a quart was good, While something like an Eagle's talon Upon her blackboard was a gallon. And woe to him, who soon or late His tally did not liquidate; For when her goodly company Were all assembled for a spree, She read off each delinquent's score, And at his meanness loudly swore, And threatened when he next appeared, Unless the entry all was cleaed, To lay on future drinks a stricture, And photograph, perhaps, his picture In pewter, for the unpaid tally, As given, I think, in C. O'Malley. Old Corkstown was a merry place On pay-day, when the soaking race Assembled full of fun and glee At Mother McGinty's for a spree, No total abstinence was known In those days in that little town, Nor many nasal organs tainted For lack of time to get them painted; No moderate drinker showed his face Within that much resorted place, For temperance had not then began To trench upon the rights of man, Sure had he trod on danger's edge Who dared there to propose the pledge. Such monstrous doctrine there had been Followed by "wigs upon the green." None there refused the offered glass, Or dared to let the bottle pass For, casus belli this was strong, Unless with a good roaring song The recreant could in his defence Atone for such most strange offence. Sometimes, nay oft, upon the street Antagonistic friends would meet By chance, or by some other charm, To try each other's strength of arm, And without legal process settle Disputes, like men of taste and mettle; And while strict "Fair Play" ruled the fight, It was a sort of rough delight For youthful souls while hanging round That ancient famous battle ground, To note who first the claret drew— who first down his opponent threw— Who first produced the limner's dyes Beneath his neighbor's damaged eyes, Or sowed the trodden ground beneath With smashed incisors, like the teeth, The dragon's tusks of ancient ken From which sprung hosts of armed men. Such pastime was a frequent thing, The entertainment of the ring, Without equestrian or clown Was often seen in Cork's own town, And best, for impecunious boys Who boasted few of modern joys, Who daily went to see the play Had no admission fee to pay. But gone is Corkstown, vanished too The whitewashed shanty from our view, Where once the minstrel's youthful eyes Beheld strange orgies with surprise. In dust its stalwart hostess now, Reposes, placid is the brow That once frowned terror o'er the throng While revelling in the dance and song, Gone with them are the fading dyes Which tinged fair childhood's happy skies, The brilliant firmament of youth Has vanished, and but leaves the truth Written wherever mortals range That things below are doomed to change.



THE FAIR OF 1829.

Now, reader, you and I must start Together with both hand and heart, Off to the far-famed level of green, Which once in verdure lay between The old Scotch Kirk, and where now Hall Confectionery sells to all; And we shall pass as something new, Old scenes before us in review, And I shall fire up these rhymes With battles of the good old times; And out of what I shall relate No single case for magistrate, Or stern judge to adjudicate Arose, for then, a bloody nose, Or broken head, between fair foes, Was counted neither loss nor gain, Nor thought of 'till they met again. 'Twas in the glorious olden time When smashing craniums was no crime— When people got no invitation At half-past nine for presentation Of damaged eye and broken skin, To answer for nocturnal sin Before that tribunal where bail Can't always keep one out of jail. 'Twas in July in '29, If true this memory of mine, At early morn upon that green Were many tents of canvas seen Within which might be found good cheer In whiskey kegs and kegs of beer; And on a little table, too, Tin measures were exposed to view, For thirsty souls their clay to slake, And draughts of inspiration take— For then the numbers were but few, Who shun'd the sparkling mountain dew, And people under no pretence Could dream of total abstinence: Even John B. Gough's most magic sway Had failed in Bytown's early day. Vast was the throng assembled there At Bytown's first and greatest Fair, And merry were the antics seen Upon that famous ancient green. 'Twas not to buy or sell they came From far and near, the blind and lame, The grave, the merry, sad and gay, Upon that old eventful day; They all assembled, wild and free, To have a ranting, roaring spree! And, by the shadows of the past! Frolic flew furious and fast, And many a head was pillowed on Old mother earth ere set of sun. A fiddler here the catgut drew, And there a highland piper, too, Shrieked forth with loud and stirring bar, The boding battle-notes of war! And lavishly the whiskey flew Among that mirth devoted crew, As oft into the tents they ran To renovate the inner man. 'Twas twelve o'clock, and all was well, "And merry as a marriage bell," Thought one might see just here and there Legs seeming somewhat worse of wear, And in the air perhaps might hear The prescient sounds of conflict near, For Irish accents there were many, Cork, Tipperary, and Kilkenny. 'Twas afternoon, and frolic's pacing Was then diversified by racing, Then soon was cleared of busy feet The race course, old Wellington street, Bets then were made, and up the money, Pat Ryan's horse, and Davy's pony, Together entered for the match— Perhaps it would be called a "scratch" Race in the turfs expressive phrase Unknown in Bytown's early days. Fair, free and gallantly they started, And headlong up the street they darted, While loudly sounded cheer on cheer As swift the winning post they near; They ran together without check, And passed it almost neck and neck, So close, the judges, though they tried, The winning horse could not decide. The race was o'er and down the brakes, Each party shouted for the stakes; And loud and fierce the clamor rose, And words soon lost themselves in blows; The very stones began to speak, And skulls, of course, began to break, And black thorns and maple sticks Played such fantastic ugly tricks, That soon the well thronged battle plain Was strewn with bodies of the slain— The "Kilt," who fell to rise again Without the doctor's mystic aid, And plunge once more into the raid. Stones flew in showers, the windows shook Around that famous Donnybrook, While Tipperary's battle yell, Did loudly o'er the conflict swell! And many a celt with accent racy Roared for a Sleavin or a Casey! And fierce the struggle raged around Where the seven Sleavin's stood their ground— Seven brothers, back to back they stood Like hero's, though their streaming blood Told how they bravely turned at bay 'Gainst hundreds in that savage fray! O'erpowered at last they did retreat Face to the foe, still in defeat, Defiant as they moved along Pursued by the relentless throng! They reached their home, shut fast the door, And stood within upon the floor, Ready to meet the coming foe, Who in their vengeance were not slow. Stones showered from the assailing crew, In pieces every window flew, Then, with a loud and savage yell They rushed to storm the citadel! A gun-barrel through a broken pane Made the invaders pause again, A sharp axe sticking through another, Their thirst for slaughter seemed to smother; A battle council then took place, And very soon there was no trace, Of conflict or of bloody fray Round where the Sleavin's stood at bay! Thus ended By-town's first old Fair, A Donnybrook most rich and rare; This annal of the olden time Was not premeditated crime, It sprung from what forms quite a part Of every genuine Irish heart, A sort of Faugh a-Ballagh way That sticks to Irishmen to-day.



LINES

Recited by the author in "Her Majesty's Theatre," at a Festival of the Mechanics' Institute in March, 1868.

In such a gay and festive scene as this, My worthy friends, it may not be amiss To mingle with the general notes of glee, A rhyme or too, even if not poesy. Indulge me while in rude unpolished verse, The promptings of the muse I now rehearse, And O! deal gently with me while I try To bring the vanished past before your eye, Fond recollections rapidly takes wing The fading scenes of other days to sing, The good old days, the dear old times of yore, Which you and I, alas! shall see no more: When all around the spot on which I stand Was trackless forest and primeval land— The "Barrack Hill," a wilderness all o'er, And Lower Town to Rideau's ancient shore A gloomy cedar swamp, the haunt of deer, In which the ruffed grouse drum'd when spring was near, While here and there a giant pine on high Towered with its spreading branches to the sky! I have the little village in my eye, Before the locks were built by Colonel By, Before the Sappers threw the ponderous arch, O'er the Canal, to aid improvement's march, Ere by the muscular canaller's spade The ground was broken where the "Deep Cut's" made— Long ere the iron bond of union span'd The vast Kah-nah-jo, wonder of our land! Here mighty Ottawa, in its grandest phase Bears some resemblance to its better days, Ere sawdust, slabs, and stern improvement gave A turbid deathstroke to its limpid wave! That good old time, 'tis pleasant to recal, When one religion almost served for all— When men together could in friendship join— When battered buttons passed for genuine coin— And silver pieces, do not think it strange, Were cut in too, and four, to make small change, When banks were few, suspensions heard of not, And specie was the only cash we got, Hard silver with no discount on our dollars, Ere brokers reigned, or flourished paper collars. Tho' dim the light of learning's genial rays Amongst the masses in those bygone days— Tho' daily papers, modern luxury's food, The bold apostles of the public good, The tribunes of the people were not found On guard our infant liberties around, Tho' institutions based on mental light, Shed scanty radiance o'er that primal night, Tho' science, wealth and philosophic lore Were rara aves upon Ottawa's shore; Tho' commerce scarce had spread her gilded wings, The herald of a costlier state of things; Tho' such an institution as our own, Was to our early pioneers unknown, An institution, let me say, in short, Worthy of every patriot's support; Established on a comprehensive base. Where every man of worth may find his place— temple of intelligence to give To mind the sustenance on which to live, Tho' all such modern glories then were rare, Yet old Bytonians did not badly fare. Churches were few in that benighted time, Seldom was heard the Sabbath's welcome chime— Yet brotherhood abounded in the land, And charity with soft and tender hand Relieved distress, and made the weeper smile, Scarce conscious of the good she did the while, And not the worst among poor sons of men, Money was plenty in the village then, For Mother Britain with a lavish hand Scattered her treasures over all the land. Simplicity then held her peaceful reign, And vice and crime were seldom in her train. No litigation marked our young career, No Police Magistrate with brow severe, And frown of justice upon trembling crime, Made culprits shiver in that happy time; Neighbor to neighbor owed so little grudge, Disputes were settled then without the Judge— The learned profession boasted not one gown, And but one lancet was in all the town— And it was busy, and got wondrous praise, For venesection flourished in those days. People owed little, and were seldom sued, No bailiff marred our ancient solitude; Duns were a nuisance in our soil not grown, Fifteen per cent, was totally unknown! Things then were taken as they happened quite, And insults were decided by a fight, In boyhood I have witnessed many a fray Within the ring by daylight and fair play— No constable poked his unwelcome nose Between the pastime of two transient foes, Who choose like Sayers and Heenan to decide Their difference with strong sinews on each side. We had no sidewalks then, not much taxation, No lock-up, county gaol, no corporation, No aldermanic wisdom, and no mayor, To fill with dignity the civic chair; No tax collector with his pressing bill To cause consumption in an empty till; Corrupt electors trod not freedom's ground, No purchaseable franchise could be found— Money was not the "altar and the God," Before which manhood bowed a venal clod! The reign of truth, ere politics was made By infamy a money-making trade! No costly vehicles with horses gay, In gilded trappings graced that ancient day; Pedestrianism was fashionable then, For boys were boys, as 'twas, and men were men. And girls were what they always were, the best Blossoms in the gardens of the blest! One steamer only cleft the Ottawa's spray, But did not, like the "Queen," come every day. No railroad engine snorted o'er the plain, Dragging along behind its ponderous train— No telegraphic line with speed of light Scattered intelligence with lightning flight; No gas-flame shed its artificial ray, Turning nocturnal darkness into day— The tallow candle blazed away supreme, And of the age of coal oil did not dream; Yet, 'twas "a gay old time," a happy time, And could I strike an upward note sublime, I'd strain my very heartstrings with the blast Of glory that I'd give the fine old past! But times are changed, and things are altered too, Fair civilization bursts upon our view; The old men of the old time have been laid In peace beneath the weeping willow's shade; The middle-aged are in the yellow leaf, Life's evening evanescent, sad and brief— The little children who flourished then Are now the mothers of our land, and men— The wilderness has vanished, the old trees Have disappeared before improvement's breeze; Commercial enterprise is busy now, The Ottawa's breast is cleft by many a prow, The roaring, rushing locomotives scour Along the track at forty miles an hour— The electric current cleaves the ambient air, Shooting the rays of thought round everywhere, Darting like sunbeams to the left and right, The swift-winged messengers of mental light! Disturbing 'neath the billows of the deep, The ocean monsters from their dreamy sleep; Cleaving resistless through the watery waste A miracle not dreamt of in the past, Annihilating time, and leaving space, Like Noah's dove, without a resting place! Thy fame, too, "old brown Bess," hath passed away, And rifled guns in war and peace hold sway, And Britain's wooden walls with all their glories, Are now but one of fame's immortal stories! But while I cast my wondering eyes around How grand the sight which doth their vision bound; A city stands in fair and youthful grace, Where once old Bytown had its primal place; And lo! in grandeur towering the skies In marbled splendor upon yonder hill, Our Legislative Temples proudly rise, A columned glory of the artist's skill! Thanks to our gracious Queen, who's royal hand Made Ottawa chief city of the land! Thanks to the men who fought through good and ill The fight of right, and bravely battled still; Who stood unshaken, firm in their adhesion, Till victory crowned Her Majesty's decision! God bless our New Dominion! may it be Granted a proud and happy destiny; Ontario and Quebec go hand in hand With Nova Scotia and New Brunswick's land; Those noble borderers of the rushing wave Grand, fitting birthplace of the free and brave! May Newfoundland, British Columbia true, Prince Edward Island join the Union, too, And the vast regions of the far North-West, Awake to form a nation great and blest! May all in common brotherhood unite To live in peace, or for our freedom fight Beneath the flag for which our fathers died, And left us as their legacy and pride! May heaven give strength and energy to those Who from political convulsion's throes— A proud example to the sons of earth, Brought union and an empire into birth! May wisdom guide them as they onward steer The vessel of the State in her career— Smooth be the wave and gentle be the gales That fill our ark of safety's well trim'd sails— Strong be the vision of the pilot, too, To keep the port of union full in view, Until the anchor's cast, the sails are furled, A spectacle of envy to the world!

THE END