His renown in the art of killing. 
It was a stirring place of trade
Where famous spinning tops were made. 
And splendid water power was found
Where now there’s nought but solid ground,
Covered with numerous loads of wood,
A costly item bad or good. 
In modern times—­of old it stood,
Maple at ninety cents a cord,
Just four and six-pence, by my word! 
And Julius Burpee, gone! well, well! 
He kept the old Rideau Hotel,
Where man and beast could get the best
And truly find the traveller’s rest. 
Julius still might living be
Were it not for the “barley bree.” 
And Edward Darcey too, appears. 
And Jeffry Nolan, who in years
Gone by, was stout and strong in fight. 
And in the conflict always right,
Before the days when frolic’s King
McDougall “made Dungarven ring!”
Frank’s arm then, as mine, was strong,
None but himself in all the throng
So far the ponderous sledge could hurl,
Until at last with dexterous whirl,
“The school master” defiant came
And walked off champion of the game. 
From first to last I’ve found him true,
McDougal ciamar tha sibhn dieugh? 
And Charles Sparrow, where, oh, where
Is he who once was Bytown’s Mayor,
Ere, J.B.  Turgeon took the chair? 
Lost ’mid the overwhelming blaze
Of changes new; gone from the gaze
Of public life, like many a man
Who, once for public honors ran. 
And George and Robert Lang are gone,
Men of intelligence and tone,
Who held positions marked and high
In Bytown’s old society. 
Nor has amongst the ancient few
Captain McKinnon from my view—­
Though long a tenant of the tomb—­
Faded into oblivion’s gloom. 
If Roderick Stewart now was near,
He’d pour into my listening ear
A tale I would delight to hear,
Of other men of other times,
Who’s names may have escaped my rhymes. 
The Captain lived, a man discreet,
Near where the ancient arch did meet
O’er famous little Sussex Street,
For there a tragedy took place
Which here the muse with truth shall trace. 
A boy stood near that arch of old
Upon a wintry day—­’twas cold,
Tired of sleighing down the hill,
He for a moment there stood still,
That boy sits now with pen in hand,
From memory’s photographic land
Painting in colors fair and true
The vanished scenes which once he knew. 
As thus he rested taking breath,
He little dreamed of blood or death. 
Up Rideau Street a man there came,
Charles McStravick was his name. 
A tall, lithe, active fellow, he,
As in a thousand you could see;
A white blanket capote he wore,
And jauntily himself he bore,
He stepped beneath the arch, and then
Rushed at him fiercely two strong men. 
Both with surprise and dread were scan’d. 
One had a loaded whip in hand,
The other a short bludgeon bore,
And in a moment, all was o’er! 
Three blows, a crash, a stream of blood.