Though strictly not of Bytown fame,
I can’t forget John Egan’s name,
It well deserves what I can give,
To make it unforgotten live;
For ’mongst the sons of enterprise,
Who rose with Bytown’s early rise,
When “Norway Pine” was number one,
John Egan stands almost alone—­
The king of the Grand River, then
The Wellington of lumber men
A man of boundless energy,
And vast capacity was he,
All difficulties had to fly,
And cower before his dauntless eye! 
Right well may Aylmer mourn and boast
The enterprising son she lost,
Upon the day when from earth’s toil
He “shuffled off the mortal coil.” 
And N.H.  Baird, of old was here,
A scientific engineer;
And Finland, the contractor, who
With coach and four the streets drove through,
The grandest carriage of the kind
E’er seen in Bytown—­with behind—­
In gorgeous and artistic glare,
A lion and an eagle—­where
Is friend Perkins? he can still
Remember that old eagle’s bill. 
And Captain Andrew Wilson, O! 
I’ve got an old sea lion now,
Who saw the flash of Nelson’s eye,
Amid the smoke of victory,
Both at Trafalgar and the Nile. 
Aye, saw the hero’s dying smile
Of triumph, when his cruise was o’er,
And to the vast eternal shore,
Launched forth by death’s o’erwhelming gale
His gallant spirit spread its sail! 
O’er flowing bowl with might and main,
He fought his battle’s o’er again,
Talked of chain shot, and “Stinkpot’s” stench,
And hated cordially the French,
Whom he believed were but created
To be by sailors killed and hated
What e’er he was, what passage o’er,
He took to the mysterious shore,
Old Charon never cleft the wave. 
Yet with a soul more true and brave! 
And Baptiste Homier, when alive,
I think had children twenty-five,
Presided o’er a tavern neat,
On the south side of Rideau street. 
A place well known both near and far,
And there John Johnston kept the bar,
Related backward up the stream,
To him who had the lucky dream;
With the old Chief, who in “a fix”
Was found before old ’76. 
Colonial history has told
The story in the days of old. 
The Indian dreamed, the General lost
His uniform, but to his cost
The wily chieftain quickly found
The General’s dream, bought solid ground,
And Martin, James, and Darby Keally
From the green land of the “Shillaly.” 
Richard Fitzsimmons, too, was found,
The Paganini of sweet sound
In days gone by, with memories big,
And well he danced an Irish jig. 
Most incomplete would be my tale,
Did I not draw aside the veil,
And bring from distant vistas through,
The ancient fiddler into view. 
While strolling downward by the locks,
One of those reminiscent knocks
I felt, which brought my eye before
Another of the men of yore;
I gazed, as the dim shadow neared,
And then before my sight appeared