But, as friend Yielding turned to go,
“Come back,” said Charley, “for you owe
Just seven and sixpence for advice,
So hand it over in a trice.” 
While on the past I now reflect,
I well and clearly recollect
John Wilson, who kept office here,
And afterwards a Judge austere
Of the Queen’s Bench or Common Pleas,
Sat with much dignity and ease. 
’Tis past, I shall not here relate
Young Robert Lyon’s luckless fate,
Nor shall I stir the tomb and tell
Why he an early victim fell
At folly’s shrine, as he who bends
A martyr to ill-judging friends,
Will always fall; but end I here
This record of his short career. 
Honor, indeed! thy shrine appears,
Surrounded by a sea of tears. 
George Shouldice is a man of old,
Henry was too, who ’neath the mould
Lies slumbering in solemn rest—­
He many a pompous body drest
With garments fine and quite exotic,
When fashion was not so despotic. 
And Charles Friel, an early man
With Bytown’s history began,
A man of ready tongue and wit,
A politician who could hit
And sway with eloquence the throng,
Which shouts alike for right or wrong. 
Father of Henry James, who died. 
Just as his eye of hope descried
The goal he labored to attain—­
The honors he had fought to gain. 
Tis no uncommon thing to find
A little man with full grown mind: 
And ’mongst those who have gone to rest—­
Who of their chances made the best
In life’s o’er turning changing reel,
I freely rank Henry J. Friel. 
And Daniel Fisher, too, is gone,
Of Scotia’s children he was one
Who clothed the naked in his day—­
That is, the naked who could pay. 
I have a friendly feeling yet
For him, for I can ne’er forget
The jacket blue which first I wore
In the old cherished days of yore,
That jacket which I don’d with pride. 
Caused me to feel a man beside
The urchin in the pinafore
Which I had just arisen o’er;
In Daniel Fisher’s shop ’twas made—­
Headquarters of the fig-leaf trade.—­
In that most ancient grand device
Which had its rise in Paradise. 
I see as on I hurry past,
Pat Duggan, who blew vulcan’s blast,
And friend Kehoe, who with hand neat
Fitted the shoes to horse’s feet;
And John McGivern, the baker,
And Robert Wanless, harness-maker;
And William Atkins, who is still
Holding his own upon the hill
Of life, though slowly wending
Towards the goal that has no ending;
And Silas Burpee, pious man,
Who in the early ages ran
With drums and belts and wheels complete
A turning mill on old York Street—­
Upon the very spot, now thought of
Where gander’s head George Shouldice shot off,
With an old smooth-bore, but would not
That day attempt a second shot;
’Twas wise of George, a second shot
Might have consigned to luckless pot,
His marksman’s name, and half a shilling,