And no more upright man has e’er
Deserving of the post sat there. 
And William Stewart, too, who’s name
Elsewhere has graced my roll of fame,
Was as the reader will remember,
For Bytown long ago a member,
Good representative he made,
And his constituents ne’er betrayed,
We were by taxes lightly rated
When Bytown was incorporated,
By the Bill by him presented
When he this village represented
In ’47, the year, no other,
When to that stingy old step mother,
The County of Carleton we were tied
And had our temper sorely tried. 
This was before Lord Sydenham’s reign
Which gave that legislative strain
To our Colonial Constitution,
And made a legal institution,
The Bill Municipal in Legislation,
The often tinkered act which rules the nation. 
And James Stewart, a medico
Of the old school of long ago,
A votary of potent pill,
And lancet too for many an ill. 
And not a whit more given to kill
His patients, say these truthful rhymes. 
Than M.D’s of more modern times,
And now I think it only fair
To mention here Doctor O’Hare,
Who of old Bytown formed a part,
And practised the assuaging art
Before the time of Scanlon’s tarry,
Before the days of Edward Barry
Who in his person did combine
The medical and legal line,
Exhibiting as his degree
Upon his card J.P.M.D.” 
He gave to Bytown’s sporting men
Such Fox-hunt as we ne’er again
Shall see; ah! ’twas a joyful day,
When Barry with tin horn away,
In glory on “Bob Logie’s” back,
Followed the variegated pack
Yelping in chorus o’er the plain,
We’ll never see such sport again! 
Who would at length the story hear,
Can ask the Sheriff, he was there,
And bravely in his headlong way
Did “Shamrock” carry him that day,
Close in the terror stricken wake
Of Reynard, over bush and brake,
James Fraser, too, can tell the tale,
For he went over hill and dale,
And swamp and fence and ditch and bush,
Foremost in the determined rush. 
To get up first and win the brush,
While loud above the yelling din,
Sounded the Doctor’s horn of tin,
That hunt the public health to save
Was the best prescription e’er he gave.

CHAPTER VIII.

Can I, an ancient friend, pass by,
Who even to-day still greets my eye,
And brings up among modern men
The dearly cherish’d past again? 
’Tis far, far back, I scarce can fix
The date, perhaps, ’twas ’26,
When he, in Huntly, on a farm,
Once tried his unaccustomed arm
At work for which ’twas never made,
In that most independent trade. 
He left Bucolics, trees, and all,
And moved away to Montreal,
To teach, as better him did suit,
“The young idea how to shoot.” 
And many a youth has blest the day
Of Alexander Workman’s sway. 
I’ll say no more, lest I should be